THE    METTLE 
OF   THE  PASTURE 


JAMES   LANE  ALLEN 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


THE   METTLE   OF   THE 
PASTURE 


COPYRIGHT,  1903, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  July,  1903. 
Reprinted  August,  September,  October,  November, 
1003. 


J.  8.  Ctiihing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Ko 


226344 


THE    METTLE    OF    THE 
PASTURE 


SHE  did  not  wish  any  supper  and  she  sank 
forgetfully  back  into  the  stately  oak  chair. 
One  of  her  hands  lay  palm  upward  on  her 
white  lap ;  in  the  other,  which  drooped  over 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  she  clasped  a  young 
rose  dark  red  amid  its  leaves  —  an  inverted 
torch  of  love. 

Old-fashioned  glass  doors  behind  her 
reached  from  a  high  ceiling  to  the  floor ; 
they  had  been  thrown  open  and  the  curtains 
looped  apart.  Stone  steps  outside  led  down 
ward  to  the  turf  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 
This  turf  covered  a  lawn  unroughened  by 
plant  or  weed ;  but  over  it  at  majestic  inter 
vals  grew  clumps  of  gray  pines  and  dim-blue, 
ever  wintry  firs.  Beyond  lawn  and  ever 
greens  a  flower  garden  bloomed  ;  and  beyond 


2  The  Mttllt  of  the  Pasture 

the  high  fence  enclosing  this,  tree-tops  and 
house-tops  of  the  town  could  be  seen ;  and 
beyond  these  —  away  in  the  west  —  the  sky 
was  flaming  now  with  the  falling  sun. 

A  few  bars  of  dusty  gold  hung  poised 
across  the  darkening  spaces  of  the  supper 
room.  Ripples  of  the  evening  air,  entering 
through  the  windows,  flowed  over  her,  lifting 
the  thick  curling  locks  at  the  nape  of  her 
neck,  creeping  forward  over  her  shoulders 
and  passing  along  her  round  arms  under  the 
thin  fabric  of  her  sleeves. 

They  aroused  her,  these  vanishing  beams 
of  the  day,  these  arriving  breezes  of  the 
night ;  they  became  secret  invitations  to  es 
cape  from  the  house  into  the  privacy  of  the 
garden,  where  she  could  be  alone  with 
thoughts  of  her  great  happiness  now  fast 
approaching. 

A  servant  entered  noiselessly,  bringing  a 
silver  bowl  of  frozen  cream.  Beside  this,  at 
the  head  of  the  table  before  her  grand 
mother,  he  placed  scarlet  strawberries  gath 
ered  that  morning  under  white  dews.  She 
availed  herself  of  the  slight  interruption  and 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  3 

rose  with  an  apology ;  but  even  when  love 
bade  her  go,  love  also  bade  her  linger;  she 
could  scarce  bear  to  be  with  them,  but  she 
could  scarce  bear  to  be  alone.  She  paused 
at  her  grandmother's  chair  to  stroke  the 
dry  bronze  puffs  on  her  temples  —  a  unique 
impulse ;  she  hesitated  compassionately  a 
moment  beside  her  aunt,  who  had  never 
married ;  then,  passing  around  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table,  she  took  between  her  palms 
the  sunburnt  cheeks  of  a  youth,  her  cousin, 
and  buried  her  own  tingling  cheek  in  his 
hair.  Instinct  at  that  moment  drew  her  most 
to  him  because  he  was  young  as  she  was 
young,  having  life  and  love  before  him  as 
she  had ;  only,  for  him  love  stayed  far  in  the 
future ;  for  her  it  came  to-night. 

When  she  had  crossed  the  room  and 
reached  the  hall,  she  paused  and  glanced 
back,  held  by  the  tension  of  cords  which  she 
dreaded  to  break.  She  felt  that  nothing 
would  ever  be  the  same  again  in  the  home 
of  her  childhood.  Until  marriage  she  would 
remain  under  its  dear  honored  roof,  and  there 
would  be  no  outward  interruption  of  its 


4  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

familiar  routine  ;  but  for  her  all  the  bonds  of 
life  would  have  become  loosened  from  old 
ties  and  united  in  him  alone  whom  this  even 
ing  she  was  to  choose  as  her  lot  and  destiny. 
Under  the  influence  of  that  fresh  fondness, 
therefore,  which  wells  up  so  strangely  within 
us  at  the  thought  of  parting  from  home  and 
home  people,  even  though  we  may  not 
greatly  care  for  them,  she  now  stood  gazing 
at  the  picture  they  formed  as  though  she 
were  already  calling  it  back  through  the  dis 
tances  of  memory  and  the  changes  of  future 
years. 

They,  too,  had  shifted  their  positions  and 
were  looking  at  her  with  one  undisguised  ex 
pression  of  pride  and  love ;  and  they  smiled 
as  she  smiled  radiantly  back  at  them,  waving 
a  last  adieu  with  her  spray  of  rose  and  turn 
ing  quickly  in  a  dread  of  foolish  tears. 

"  Isabel." 

It  was  the  youthful  voice  of  her  grand 
mother.  She  faced  them  again  with  a  little 
frown  of  feigned  impatience. 

"  If  you  are  going  into  the  garden,  throw 
something  around  your  shoulders." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  5 

"Thank  you,  grandmother;  I  have  my 
lace." 

Crossing  the  hall,  she  went  into  the  front 
parlor,  took  from  a  damask  sofa  a  rare  shawl 
of  white  lace  and,  walking  to  a  mirror,  threw 
it  over  her  head,  absently  noting  the  effect 
in  profile.  She  lifted  this  off  and,  breaking 
the  rose  from  part  of  its  stem,  pinned  that 
on  her  breast.  Then,  stepping  aside  to  one 
of  the  large  lofty  windows,  she  stood  there 
under  the  droop  of  the  curtains,  sunk  into 
reverie  again  and  looking  out  upon  the  yard 
and  the  street  beyond. 

Hardly  a  sound  disturbed  the  twilight  still 
ness.  A  lamplighter  passed,  torching  the 
grim  lamps.  A  sauntering  carrier  threw  the 
evening  newspaper  over  the  gate,  with  his 
unintelligible  cry.  A  dog-cart  rumbled  by, 
and  later,  a  brougham  ;  people  were  not  yet 
returned  from  driving  on  the  country  turn 
pikes.  Once,  some  belated  girls  clattered 
past  on  ponies.  But  already  little  children, 
bare-armed,  bare-necked,  swinging  lanterns, 
and  attended  by  proud  young  mothers,  were 
on  their  way  to  a  summer-night  festival  in 


6  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  park.  Up  and  down  the  street  family 
groups  were  forming  on  the  verandas.  The 
red  disks  of  cigars  could  be  seen,  and  the 
laughter  of  happy  women  was  wafted  across 
the  dividing  fences  and  shrubbery,  and  vines. 
Breaking  again  through  her  reverie,  which 
seemed  to  envelop  her,  wherever  she  went, 
like  a  beautiful  cloud,  she  left  the  window 
and  appeared  at  the  front  door.  Palms  stood 
on  each  side  of  the  granite  steps,  and  these 
arched  their  tropical  leaves  far  over  toward 
her  quiet  feet  as  she  passed  down.  Along 
the  pavement  were  set  huge  green  boxes,  in 
which  white  oleanders  grew,  and  flaming  pome 
granates,  and  crepe  myrtle  thickly  roofed 
with  pink.  She  was  used  to  hover  about 
them  at  this  hour,  but  she  strolled  past,  un 
mindful  now,  the  daily  habit  obliterated,  the 
dumb  little  tie  quite  broken.  The  twisted 
newspaper  lay  white  on  the  shadowed  pave 
ment  before  her  eyes  and  she  did  not  see 
that.  She  walked  on  until  she  reached  the 
gate  and,  folding  her  hands  about  one  of  the 
brass  globes  surmounting  the  iron  spikes, 
leaned  over  and  probed  with  impatient  eyes 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  7 

the  long  dusk  of  the  street ;  as  far  as  he  could 
be  seen  coming  she  wished  to  see  him. 

It  was  too  early.  So  she  filled  her  eyes 
with  pictures  of  the  daylight  fading  over 
woods  and  fields  far  out  in  the  country.  But 
the  entire  flock  of  wistful  thoughts  settled  at 
last  about  a  large  house  situated  on  a  wooded 
hill  some  miles  from  town.  A  lawn  sloped 
upward  to  it  from  the  turnpike,  and  there 
was  a  gravelled  driveway.  She  unlatched 
the  gate,  approached  the  house,  passed 
through  the  wide  hall,  ascended  the  stairs, 
stood  at  the  door  of  his  room  —  waiting. 
Why  did  he  not  come  ?  How  could  he 
linger  ? 

Dreamily  she  turned  back;  and  following  a 
narrow  walk,  passed  to  the  rear  of  the  house 
and  thence  across  the  lawn  of  turf  toward 
the  garden. 

A  shower  had  fallen  early  in  the  day  and 
the  grass  had  been  cut  afterwards.  After 
noon  sunshine  had  drunk  the  moisture,  leav 
ing  the  fragrance  released  and  floating.  The 
warmth  of  the  cooling  earth  reached  her  foot 
through  the  sole  of  her  slipper.  On  the 


8  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

plume  of  a  pine,  a  bird  was  sending  its  last 
call  after  the  bright  hours,  while  out  of  the 
firs  came  the  tumult  of  plainer  kinds  as  they 
mingled  for  common  sleep.  The  heavy  cry 
of  the  bullbat  fell  from  far  above,  and  look 
ing  up  quickly  for  a  sight  of  his  winnowing 
wings  under  the  vast  purpling  vault  she  be 
held  the  earliest  stars. 

Thus,  everywhere,  under  her  feet,  over 
her  head,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  vision, 
because  inhabiting  that  realm  into  which  the 
spirit  alone  can  send  its  aspiration  and  its 
prayer,  was  one  influence,  one  spell :  the 
warmth  of  the  good  wholesome  earth,  its 
breath  of  sweetness,  its  voices  of  peace  and 
love  and  rest,  the  majesty  of  its  flashing 
dome ;  and  holding  all  these  safe  as  in  the 
hollow  of  a  hand  the  Eternal  Guardianship 
of  the  world. 

As  she  strolled  around  the  garden  under 
the  cloudy  flush  of  the  evening  sky  dressed 
in  white,  a  shawl  of  white  lace  over  one  arm, 
a  rose  on  her  breast,  she  had  the  exquisite- 
ness  of  a  long  past,  during  which  women 
have  been  chosen  in  marriage  for  health 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  9 

and  beauty  and  children  and  the  power  to 
charm.  The  very  curve  of  her  neck  implied 
generations  of  mothers  who  had  valued  grace. 
Generations  of  forefathers  had  imparted  to 
her  walk  and  bearing  their  courage  and  their 
pride.  The  precision  of  the  eyebrow,  the 
chiselled  perfection  of  the  nostril,  the  loveli 
ness  of  the  short  red  lip ;  the  well-arched 
feet,  small,  but  sure  of  themselves ;  the  eyes 
that  were  kind  and  truthful  and  thoughtful; 
the  sheen  of  her  hair,  the  fineness  of  her 
skin,  her  nobly  cast  figure,  —  all  these  were 
evidences  of  descent  from  a  people  that  had 
reached  in  her  the  purity,  without  having 
lost  the  vigor,  of  one  of  its  highest  types. 

She  had  supposed  that  when  he  came  the 
servant  would  receive  him  and  announce  his 
arrival,  but  in  a  little  while  the  sound  of  a 
step  on  the  gravel  reached  her  ear;  she 
paused  and  listened.  It  was  familiar,  but  it 
was  unnatural — ^she  remembered  this  after 
wards. 

She  began  to  walk  away  from  him,  her  beau 
tiful  head  suddenly  arched  far  forward,  her 
bosom  rising  and  falling  under  her  clasped 


io          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

hands,  her  eyes  filling  with  wonderful  light. 
Then  regaining  composure  because  losing 
consciousness  of  herself  in  the  thought  of 
him,  she  turned  and  with  divine  simplicity 
of  soul  advanced  to  meet  him. 

Near  the  centre  of  the  garden  there  was 
an  open  spot  where  two  pathways  crossed ; 
and  it  was  here,  emerging  from  the  shrub 
bery,  that  they  came  in  sight  of  each  other. 
Neither  spoke.  Neither  made  in  advance  a 
sign  of  greeting.  When  they  were  a  few 
yards  apart  she  paused,  flushing  through 
her  whiteness ;  and  he,  dropping  his  hat 
from  his  hand,  stepped  quickly  forward, 
gathered  her  hands  into  his  and  stood  look 
ing  down  on  her  in  silence.  He  was  very 
pale  and  barely  controlled  himself. 

"  Isabel !  "     It  was  all  he  could  say. 

"  Rowan  !  "  she  answered  at  length.  She 
spoke  under  her  breath  and  stood  before 
him  with  her  head  drooping,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground.  Then  he  released  her  and  she  led 
the  way  at  once  out  of  the  garden. 

When  they  had  reached  the  front  of  the 
house,  sounds  of  conversation  on  the  veranda 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         1 1 

warned  them  that  there  were  guests,  and 
without  concealing  their  desire  to  be  alone 
they  passed  to  a  rustic  bench  under  one  of 
the  old  trees,  standing  between  the  house  and 
the  street ;  they  were  used  to  sitting  there ; 
they  had  known  each  other  all  their  lives. 

A  long  time  they  forced  themselves  to 
talk  of  common  and  trivial  things,  the  one 
great  meaning  of  the  hour  being  avoided  by 
each.  Meanwhile  it  was  growing  very  late. 
The  children  had  long  before  returned  drow 
sily  home  held  by  the  hand,  their  lanterns 
dropped  on  the  way  or  still  clung  to,  torn 
and  darkened.  No  groups  laughed  on  the 
verandas ;  but  gas-jets  had  been  lighted  and 
turned  low  as  people  undressed  for  bed. 
The  guests  of  the  family  had  gone.  Even 
Isabel's  grandmother  had  not  been  able 
further  to  put  away  sleep  from  her  plotting 
brain  in  order  to  send  out  to  them  a  final 
inquisitive  thought  —  the  last  reconnoitring 
bee  of  all  the  in-gathered  hive.  Now,  at 
length,  as  absolutely  as  he  could  have  wished, 
he  was  alone  with  her  and  secure  from  inter 
ruption. 


1 2         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

The  moon  had  sunk  so  low  that  its  rays 
fell  in  a  silvery  stream  on  her  white  figure  ; 
only  a  waving  bough  of  the  tree  overhead 
still  brushed  with  shadow  her  neck  and  face. 
As  the  evening  waned,  she  had  less  to  say  to 
him,  growing  always  more  silent  in  new  dig 
nity,  more  mute  with  happiness. 

He  pushed  himself  abruptly  away  from 
her  side  and  bending  over  touched  his  lips 
reverently  to  the  back  of  one  of  her  hands, 
as  they  lay  'on  the  shawl  in  her  lap. 

"  Isabel,"  and  then  he  hesitated. 

Cf  Yes,"  she  answered  sweetly.  She  paused 
likewise,  requiring  nothing  more ;  it  was 
enough  that  he  should  speak  her  name. 

He  changed  his  position  and  sat  looking 
ahead.  Presently  he  began  again,  choosing 
his  words  as  a  man  might  search  among  ter 
rible  weapons  for  the  least  deadly. 

"  When  I  wrote  and  asked  you  to  marry 
me,  I  said  I  should  come  to-night  and  re 
ceive  your  answer  from  your  own  lips.  If 
your  answer  had  been  different,  I  should 
never  have  spoken  to  you  of  my  past.  It 
would  not  have  been  my  duty.  I  should 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         1 3 

not  have  had  the  right.  I  repeat,  Isabel, 
that  until  you  had  confessed  your  love  for 
me,  I  should  have  had  no  right  to  speak  to 
you  about  my  past.  But  now  there  is  some 
thing  you  ought  to  be  told  at  once." 

She  glanced  up  quickly  with  a  rebuking 
smile.  How  could  he  wander  so  far  from 
the  happiness  of  moments  too  soon  to  end  ? 
What  was  his  past  to  her  ? 

He  went  on  more  guardedly. 

"  Ever  since  I  have  loved  you,  I  have  re 
alized  what  I  should  have  to  tell  you  if  you 
ever  returned  my  love.  Sometimes  duty 
has  seemed  one  thing,  sometimes  another. 
This  is  why  I  have  waited  so  long — more 
than  two  years ;  the  way  was  not  clear. 
Isabel,  it  will  never  be  clear.  I  believe  now 
it  is  wrong  to  tell  you  ;  I  believe  it  is  wrong 
not  to  tell  you.  I  have  thought  and  thought 
—  it  is  wrong  either  way.  But  the  least 
wrong  to  you  and  to  myself —  that  is  what  I 
have  always  tried  to  see,  and  as  I  understand 
my  duty,  now  that  you  are  willing  to  unite 
your  life  with  mine,  there  is  something  you 
must  know." 


1 4         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

He  added  the  last  words  as  though  he 
had  reached  a  difficult  position  and  were  an 
nouncing  his  purpose  to  hold  it.  But  he 
paused  gloomily  again. 

She  had  scarcely  heard,  him  through  won 
derment  that  he  could  so  change  at  such  a 
moment.  Her  happiness  began  to  falter  and 
darken  like  departing  sunbeams.  She  re 
mained  for  a  space  uncertain  of  herself, 
knowing  neither  what  was  needed  nor  what 
was  best ;  then  she  spoke  with  resolute  depre 
cation  : 

"  Why  discuss  with  me  your  past  life  ? 
Have  I  not  known  you  always  ?  " 

These  were  not  the  words  of  girlhood. 
She  spoke  from  the  emotions  of  womanhood, 
beginning  to-night  in  the  plighting  of  her 
troth. 

"  You  have  trusted  me  too  much,  Isabel." 

Repulsed  a  second  time,  she  now  fixed  her 
large  eyes  upon  him  with  surprise.  The  next 
moment  she  had  crossed  lightly  once  more 
the  widening  chasm. 

"  Rowan,'*  she  said  more  gravely  and  with 
slight  reproach,  "  I  have  not  waited  so  long 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         1 5 

and  then  not  known  the  man  whom  I  have 
chosen." 

"  Ah/'  he  cried,  with  a  gesture  of  distress. 

Thus  they  sat :  she  silent  with  new  thoughts ; 
he  speechless  with  his  old  ones.  Again  she 
was  the  first  to  speak.  More  deeply  moved 
by  the  sight  of  his  increasing  excitement, 
she  took  one  of  his  hands  into  both  of  hers, 
pressing  it  with  a  delicate  tenderness. 

"  What  is  it  that  troubles  you,  Rowan  ? 
Tell  me  !  It  is  my  duty  to  listen.  I  have 
the  right  to  know." 

He  shrank  from  what  he  had  never  heard 
in  her  voice  before  —  disappointment  in  him. 
And  it  was  neither  girlhood  nor  womanhood 
which  had  spoken  now  :  it  was  comradeship 
which  is  possible  to  girlhood  and  to  woman 
hood  through  wifehood  alone :  she  was  tak 
ing  their  future  for  granted.  He  caught  her 
hand  and  lifted  it  again  and  again  to  his 
lips  ;  then  he  turned  away  from  her. 

Thus  shut  out  from  him  again,  she  sat 
looking  out  into  the  night. 

But  in  a  woman's  complete  love  of  a  man 
there  is  something  deeper  than  girlhood  or 


1 6          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

womanhood  or  wifehood :  it  is  the  mater 
nal  —  that  dependence  on  his  strength  when 
he  is  well  and  strong,  that  passion  of  protec 
tion  and  defence  when  he  is  frail  or  stricken. 
Into  her  mood  and  feeling  toward  him  even 
the  maternal  had  forced  its  way.  She  would 
have  found  some  expression  for  it  but  he 
anticipated  her. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you,  of  my  duty  to 
you,  of  your  happiness." 

She  realized  at  last  some  terrible  hidden  im 
port  in  all  that  he  had  been  trying  to  confess. 
A  shrouded  mysterious  Shape  of  Evil  was 
suddenly  disclosed  as  already  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  the  House  of  Life  which  they 
were  about  to  enter  together.  The  night 
being  warm,  she  had  not  used  her  shawl. 
Now  she  threw  it  over  her  head  and  gathered 
the  weblike  folds  tightly  under  her  throat  as 
though  she  were  growing  cold.  The  next 
instant,  with  a  swift  movement,  she  tore  it 
from  her  head  and  pushed  herself  as  far  as 
possible  away  from  him  out  into  the  moon 
light  ;  and  she  sat  there  looking  at  him,  wild 
with  distrust  and  fear. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         17 

He  caught  sight  of  her  face. 

"  Oh,  I  am  doing  wrong,"  he  cried  miser 
ably.  "  I  must  not  tell  you  this  ! " 

He  sprang  up  and  hurried  over  to  the 
pavement  and  began  to  walk  to  and  fro. 
He  walked  to  and  fro  a  long  time ;  and  after 
waiting  for  him  to  return,  she  came  quickly 
and  stood  in  his  path.  But  when  he  drew 
near  her  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"  I  cannot ! "  he  repeated,  shaking  his 
head  and  turning  away. 

Still  she  waited,  and  when  he  approached  and 
was  turn;ng  away  again,  she  stepped  forward 
and  laid  on  his  arm  her  quivering  finger-tips. 

"  You  must,"  she  said.  "  You  shall  tell 
me  ! "  and  if  there  was  anger  in  her  voice,  if 
there  was  anguish  in  it,  th^re  was  the  author 
ity  likewise  of  holy  and  sovereign  rights. 
But  he  thrust  her  all  but  rudely  away,  and 
going  to  the  lower  end  of  the  pavement, 
walked  there  backward  and  forward  with  his 
hat  pulled  low  over  his  eyes  —  walked  slowly, 
always  more  slowly.  Twice  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  gate  as  though  he  would  have,  passed 
out.  At  last  he  stopped  and  looked  back  to 


1 8          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

where  she  waited  in  the  light,  her  face  set 
immovably,  commandingly,  toward  him. 
Then  he  came  back  and  stood  before  her. 

The  moon,  now  sinking  low,  shone  full 
on  his  face,  pale,  sad,  very  quiet ;  and  into 
his  eyes,  mournful  as  she  had  never  known 
any  eyes  to  be.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat 
and  held  it  in  his  hand,  and  a  light  wind 
blew  his  thick  hair  about  his  forehead  and 
temples.  She,  looking  at  him  with  senses 
preternaturally  aroused,  afterwards  remem 
bered  all  this. 

Before  he  began  to  speak  he  saw  rush 
over  her  face  a  look  of  final  entreaty  that  he 
would  not  strike  her  too  cruel  a  blow.  This, 
when  he  had  ceased  speaking,  was  succeeded 
by  the  expression  of  one  who  has  received  a 
shock  beyond  all  imagination.  Thus  they 
stood  looking  into  each  other's  eyes ;  then 
she  shrank  back  and  started  toward  the 
house. 

He  sprang  after  her. 

"  You  are  leaving  me  !  "  he  cried  horribly. 

She  walked  straight  on,  neither  quicken 
ing  nor  slackening  her  pace  nor  swerving, 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture          1 9 

although  his  body  began  unsteadily  to  inter 
cept  hers. 

He  kept  beside  her. 

"  Don't !  Isabel ! "  he  prayed  out  of  his 
agony.  "  Don't  leave  me  like  this  —  !  " 

She  walked  on  and  reached  the  steps  of 
the  veranda.  Crying  out  in  his  longing  he 
threw  his  arms  around  her  and  held  her 
close. 

"  You  must  not !  You  shall  not !  Do 
you  know  what  you  are  doing,  Isabel  ? " 

She  made  not  the  least  reply,  not  the  least 
effort  to  extricate  herself.  But  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  shuddered  and  twisted  her  body 
away  from  him  as  a  bird  of  the  air  bends  its 
neck  and  head  as  far  as  possible  from  a  re 
pulsive  captor ;  and  like  the  heart  of  such  a 
bird,  he  could  feel  the  throbbing  of  her  heart. 

Her  mute  submission  to  his  violence  stung 
him :  he  let  her  go.  She  spread  out  her 
arms  as  though  in  a  rising  flight  of  her 
nature  and  the  shawl,  tossed  backward  from 
her  shoulders,  fell  to  the  ground :  it  was  as 
if  she  cast  off  the  garment  he  had  touched. 
Then  she  went  quickly  up  the  steps.  Before 


20          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

she  could  reach  the  door  he  confronted  her 
again  ;  he  pressed  his  back  against  it.  She 
stretched  out  her  hand  and  rang  the  bell. 
He  stepped  aside  very  quickly  —  proudly. 
She  entered,  closing  and  locking  noiselessly 
the  door  that  no  sound  might  reach  the  ser 
vant  she  had  summoned.  As  she  did  so  she 
heard  him  try  the  knob  and  call  to  her  in  an 
undertone  of  last  reproach  and  last  entreaty  : 
"  Isabel !  —  Isabel !  —  Isabel !  " 
Hurrying  through  the  hall,  she  ran  silently 
up  the  stairs  to  her  room  and  shut  herself  in. 
Her  first  feeling  was  joy  that  she  was 
there  safe  from  him  and  from  every  one  else 
for  the  night.  Her  instant  need  was  to  be 
alone.  It  was  this  feeling  also  that  caused 
her  to  go  on  tiptoe  around  the  room  and 
draw  down  the  blinds,  as  though  the  glim 
mering  windows  were  large  eyes  peering  at 
her  with  intrusive  wounding  stare.  Then 
taking  her  position  close  to  a  front  window, 
she  listened.  He  was  walking  slowly  back 
ward  and  forward  on  the  pavement  reluc 
tantly,  doubtfully ;  finally  he  passed  through 
the  gate.  As  it  clanged  heavily  behind  him, 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         21 

Isabel  pressed  her  hands  convulsively  to  her 
heart  as  though  it  also  had  gates  which  had 
closed,  never  to  reopen. 

Then  she  lighted  the  gas-jets  beside  the 
bureau  and  when  she  caught  sight  of  her 
self  the  thought  came  how  unchanged  she 
looked.  She  stood  there,  just  as  she  had 
stood  before  going  down  to  supper,  no 
where  a  sign  of  all  the  deep  displacement 
and  destruction  that  had  gone  on  within. 

But  she  said  to  herself  that  what  he  had 
told  her  would  reveal  itself  in  time.  It 
would  lie  in  the  first  furrows  deepening  down 
her  cheeks ;  it  would  be  the  earliest  frost  of 
years  upon  her  hair. 

A  long  while  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch  in  the  middle  of  the  room  under  the 
brilliant  gaslight,  her  hands  forgotten  in  her 
lap,  her  brows  arched  high,  her  eyes  on  the 
floor.  Then  her  head  beginning  to  ache, 
a  new  sensation  for  her,  she  thought  she 
should  bind  a  wet  handkerchief  to  it  as  she 
had  often  done  for  her  aunt ;  but  the  water 
which  the  maid  had  placed  in  the  room  had 
become  warm.  She  must  go  down  to  the 


22          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

ewer  in  the  hall.  As  she  did  so,  she  recol 
lected  her  shawl. 

It  was  lying  on  the  wet  grass  where  it  had 
fallen.  There  was  a  half-framed  accusing 
thought  that  he  might  have  gone  for  it;  but  she 
put  the  thought  away  :  the  time  had  passed  for 
courtesies  from  him.  When  she  stooped  for  the 
shawl,  an  owl  flew  viciously  at  her,  snapping  its 
bill  close  to  her  face  and  stirring  the  air  with  its 
wings.  Unnerved,  she  ran  back  into  the  porch, 
but  stopped  there  ashamed  and  looking  kindly 
toward  the  tree  in  which  it  made  its  home. 

An  old  vine  of  darkest  green  had  wreathed 
itself  about  the  pillars  of  the  veranda  on  that 
side  ;  and  it  was  at  a  frame-like  opening  in  the 
massive  foliage  of  this  that  the  upper  part  of 
her  pure  white  figure  now  stood  revealed  in 
the  last  low,  silvery,  mystical  light.  The  sink 
ing  of  the  moon  was  like  a  great  death  on  the 
horizon,  leaving  the  pall  of  darkness,  the  void 
of  infinite  loss. 

She  hung  upon  this  far  spectacle  of  nature 
with  sad  intensity,  figuring  from  it  some  coun 
terpart  of  the  tragedy  taking  place  within  her 
own  mind. 


II 

ISABEL  slept  soundly,  the  regular  habit  of 
healthy  years  being  too  firmly  entrenched  to 
give  way  at  once.  Meanwhile  deep  changes 
were  wrought  out  in  her. 

When  we  fall  asleep,  we  do  not  lay  aside 
the  thoughts  of  the  day,  as  the  hand  its  phys 
ical  work ;  nor  upon  awakening  return  to 
the  activity  of  these  as  it  to  the  renewal  of 
its  toil,  finding  them  undisturbed.  Our 
most  piercing  insight  yields  no  deeper  con 
ception  of  life  than  that  of  perpetual  build 
ing  and  unbuilding ;  and  during  what  we 
call  our  rest,  it  is  often  most  active  in  exe 
cuting  its  inscrutable  will.  All  along  the 
dark  chimneys  of  the  brain,  clinging  like 
myriads  of  swallows  deep-buried  and  slum 
brous  in  quiet  and  in  soot,  are  the  countless 
thoughts  which  lately  winged  the  wide  heaven 
of  conscious  day.  Alike  through  dreaming 
and  through  dreamless  hours  Life  moves 
among  these,  handling  and  considering  each 
23  . 


24          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  the  unreckonable  multitude ;  and  when 
morning  light  strikes  the  dark  chimneys 
again  and  they  rush  forth,  some  that  en 
tered  young" have  matured;  some  of  the  old 
have  become  infirm ;  many  of  which  have 
dropped  in  singly  issue  as  companies ;  and 
young  broods  flutter  forth,  unaccountable 
nestlings  of  a  night,  which  were  not  in  yes 
terday's  blue  at  all.  Then  there  are  the 
missing  —  those  that  went  in  with  the  rest 
at  nightfall  but  were  struck  from  the  walls 
forever.  So  all  are  altered,  for  while  we  have 
slept  we  have  still  been  subject  to  that  on- 
moving  energy  of  the  world  which  inces 
santly  renews  us  yet  transmutes  us  —  double 
mystery  of  our  permanence  and  our  change. 
It  was  thus  that  nature  dealt  with  Isabel 
on  this  night :  hours  of  swift  difficult  transi 
tion  from  her  former  life  to  that  upon  which 
she  was  now  to  enter.  She  fell  asleep  over 
whelmed  amid  the  ruins  of  the  old ;  she 
awoke  already  engaged  with  the  duties  of 
the  new.  At  sundown  she  was  a  girl  who 
had  never  confessed  her  love ;  at  sunrise  she 
was  a  woman  who  had  discarded  the  man 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         25 

she  had  just  accepted.  Rising  at  once  and 
dressing  with  despatch,  she  entered  upon 
preparations  for  completing  her  spiritual  sepa 
ration  from  Rowan  in  every  material  way. 

The  books  he  had  lent  her  —  these  she 
made  ready  to  return  this  morning.  Other 
things,  also,  trifles  in  themselves  but  until 
now  so  freighted  with  significance.  Then 
his  letters  and  notes,  how  many,  how  many 
they  were  !  Thus  ever  about  her  rooms  she 
moved  on  this  mournful  occupation  until 
the  last  thing  had  been  disposed  of  as  either 
to  be  sent  back  or  to  be  destroyed. 

And  then  while  Isabel  waited  for  breakfast 
to  be  announced,  always  she  was  realizing 
how  familiar  seemed  Rowan's  terrible  con 
fession,  already  lying  far  from  her  across 
the  fields  of  memory  —  with  a  path  worn 
deep  between  it  and  herself  as  though  she 
had  been  traversing  the  distance  for  years; 
so  old  can  sorrow  grow  during  a  little  sleep. 

When  she  went  down  they  were  seated  as 
she  had  left  them  the  evening  before,  grand 
mother,  aunt,  cousin  ;  and  they  looked  up 
with  the  same  pride  and  fondness.  But 


26          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

affection  has  so  different  a  quality  in  the 
morning.  Then  the  full  soundless  tides 
which  come  in  at  nightfall  have  receded ; 
and  in  their  stead  is  the  glittering  beach 
with  thin  waves  that  give  no  rest  to  the  ear 
or  to  the  shore  —  thin  noisy  edge  of  the 
deeps  of  the  soul. 

This  fresh  morning  mood  now  ruled  them  ; 
no  such  wholesome  relief  had  come  to  her. 
So  that  their  laughter  and  high  spirits  jarred 
upon  her  strangely.  She  had  said  to  herself 
upon  leaving  them  the  evening  before  that 
never  again  could  they  be  the  same  to  her  or 
she  the  same  to  them.  But  then  she  had  ex 
pected  to  return  isolated  by  incommunicable 
happiness ;  now  she  had  returned  isolated 
by  incommunicable  grief.  Nevertheless  she 
glided  into  her  seat  with  feigned  cheerfulness, 
taking  a  natural  part  in  their  conversation ; 
and  she  rose  at  last,  smiling  with  the  rest. 

But  she  immediately  quitted  the  house, 
eager  to  be  out  of  doors  surrounded  by 
things  that  she  loved  but  that  could  not 
observe  her  or  question  her  in  return  —  alone 
with  things  that  know  not  evil. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         27 

These  were  the  last  days  of  May.  The 
rush  of  Summer  had  already  carried  it  far 
northward  over  the  boundaries  of  Spring, 
and  on  this  Sunday  morning  it  filled  the 
grounds  of  Isabel's  home  with  early  warmth. 
Quickened  by  the  heat,  summoned  by  the 
blue,  drenched  with  showers  and  dews,  all 
things  which  have  been  made  repositories  of 
the  great  presence  of  Life  were  engaged  in 
realizing  the  utmost  that  it  meant  to  them. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  splendor  of 
light  and  air,  fragrance,  colors,  shapes,  move 
ments,  melodies  and  joys  that  Isabel,  the 
loftiest  receptacle  of  life  among  them  all, 
soon  sat  in  a  secluded  spot,  motionless  and 
listless  with  her  unstanched  and  desperate 
wound.  Everything  seemed  happy  but  her 
self;  the  very  brilliancy  of  the  day  only 
deepened  the  shadow  under  which  she 
brooded.  As  she  had  slipped  away  from  the 
house,  she  would  soon  have  escaped  from  the 
garden  had  there  been  any  further  retreat. 

It  was  not  necessary  long  to  wait  for  one. 
Borne  across  the  brown  roofs  and  red  chim 
neys  of  the  town  and  exploding  in  the  crystal 


28          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

air  above  her  head  like  balls  of  mellow 
music,  came  the  sounds  of  the  first  church 
bells,  the  bells  of  Christ  Church. 

They  had  never  conveyed  other  meaning  to 
her  than  that  proclaimed  by  the  town  clock  : 
they  sounded  the  hour.  She  had  been  too 
untroubled  during  her  young  life  to  under 
stand  their  aged  argument  and  invitation. 

Held  in  the  arms  of  her  father,  when  a  babe, 
she  had  been  duly  christened.  His  death  had 
occurred  soon  afterwards,  then  her  mother's. 
Under  the  nurture  of  a  grandmother  to  whom 
religion  was  a  convenience  and  social  form, 
she  had  received  the  strictest  ceremonial  but 
in  no  wise  any  spiritual  training.  The 
first  conscious  awakening  of  this  beautiful 
unearthly  sense  had  not  taken  place  until 
the  night  of  her  confirmation  —  a  wet  April 
evening  when  the  early  green  of  the  earth 
was  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  the  lilies-of- 
the-valley  in  the  yard  had  chilled  her  fingers 
as  she  had  plucked  them  (chosen  flower  of 
her  consecration) ;  she  and  they  but  rising 
alike  into  their  higher  lives  out  of  the  same 
mysterious  Mother. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         29 

That  night  she  had  knelt  among  the 
others  at  the  chancel  and  the  bishop  who 
had  been  a  friend  of  her  father's,  having 
approached  her  in  the  long  line  of  young 
and  old,  had  laid  his  hands  the  more  softly 
for  his  memories  upon  her  brow  with  the 
impersonal  prayer  : 

"Defend,  O  Lord,  this  thy  child  with  thy 
heavenly  grace,  that  she  may  continue  thine  for 
ever,  and  daily  increase  in  thy  Holy  Spirit 
more  and  more,  until  she  come  unto  thy  Ever- 
lasting  Kingdom" 

For  days  afterwards  a  steady  radiance 
seemed  to  Isabel  to  rest  upon  her  wherever 
she  went,  shed  straight  from  Eternity.  She 
had  avoided  her  grandmother,  secluded  her 
self  from  the  closest  companions,  been  very 
thoughtful. 

Years  had  elapsed  since.  But  no  experi 
ence  of  the  soul  is  ever  wasted  or  effaceable ; 
and  as  the  sound  of  the  bells  now  reached 
her  across  the  garden,  they  reawoke  the  spirit 
ual  impulses  which  had  stirred  within  her  at 
confirmation.  First  heard  whispering  then, 
the  sacred  annunciation  now  more  eloquently 


30         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

urged  that  in  her  church,  the  hour  of  real 
need  being  come,  she  would  find  refuge, 
help,  more  than  earthly  counsellor. 

She  returned  unobserved  to  the  house 
and  after  quick  simple  preparation,  was  on 
her  way. 

When  she  slipped  shrinkingly  into  her 
pew,  scarce  any  one  had  arrived.  Several 
women  in  mourning  were  there  and  two  or 
three  aged  men.  It  is  the  sorrowful  and 
the  old  who  head  the  human  host  in  its 
march  toward  Paradise :  Youth  and  Hap 
piness  loiter  far  behind  and  are  satisfied  with 
the  earth.  Isabel  looked  around  with  a  poig 
nant  realization  of  the  broken  company  over 
into  which  she  had  so  swiftly  crossed. 

She  had  never  before  been  in  the  church 
when  it  was  empty.  How  hushed  and  solemn 
it  waited  in  its  noonday  twilight  —  the  Divine 
already  there,  faithful  keeper  of  the  ancient 
compact ;  the  human  not  yet  arrived.  Here 
indeed  was  the  refuge  she  had  craved ;  here 
the  wounded  eye  of  the  soul  could  open 
unhurt  and  unafraid ;  and  she  sank  to  her 
knees  with  a  quick  prayer  of  the  heart,  scarce 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         3 1 

of  the  lips,  for  Isabel  knew  nothing  about 
prayer  in  her  own  words  —  that  she  might 
have  peace  of  mind  during  these  guarded 
hours :  there  would  be  so  much  time  after 
wards  in  which  to  remember  —  so  many 
years  in  which  to  remember ! 

How  still  it  was !  At  first  she  started  at 
every  sound :  the  barely  audible  opening 
and  shutting  of  a  pew  door  by  some  careful 
hand ;  the  grating  of  wheels  on  the  cobble 
stones  outside  as  a  carriage  was  driven  to  the 
entrance  ;  the  love-calls  of  sparrows  building 
in  the  climbing  oak  around  the  Gothic  win 
dows. 

Soon,  however,  her  ear  became  sealed  to 
all  outward  disturbance.  She  had  fled  to  the 
church,  driven  by  many  young  impulses,  but 
among  them  was  the  keen  hope  that  her 
new  Sorrow,  which  had  begun  to  follow  her 
everywhere  since  she  awoke,  would  wait  out 
side  when  she  entered  those  doors :  so  dark 
a  spirit  would  surely  not  stalk  behind  her 
into  the  very  splendor  of  the  Spotless.  But 
as  she  now  let  her  eyes  wander  down  the 
aisle  to  the  chancel  railing  where  she  had 


32         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

knelt  at  confirmation,  where  bridal  couples 
knelt  in  receiving  the  benediction,  Isabel  felt 
that  this  new  Care  faced  her  from  there  as  from 
its  appointed  shrine  ;  she  even  fancied  that  in 
effect  it  addressed  to  her  a  solemn  warning : 

"  Isabel,  think  not  to  escape  me  in  this 
place !  It  is  here  that  Rowan  must  seem  to 
you  most  unworthy  and  most  false;  to  have 
wronged  you  most  cruelly.  For  it  was  here, 
at  this  altar,  that  you  had  expected  to  kneel 
beside  him  and  be  blessed  in  your  marriage. 
In  years  to  come,  sitting  where  you  now  sit, 
you  may  live  to  see  him  kneel  here  with 
another,  making  her  his  wife.  But  for  you, 
Isabel,  this  spot  must  ever  mean  the  renun 
ciation  of  marriage,  the  bier  of  love.  Then 
do  not  think  to  escape  me  here,  me,  who  am 
Remembrance." 

And  Isabel,  as  though  a  command  had 
been  laid  upon  her,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  altar  over  which  the  lights  of  the  stained 
glass  windows  were  joyously  playing,  gave 
herself  up  to  memories  of  all  the  innocent 
years  that  she  had  known  Rowan  and  of  the 
blind  years  that  she  had  loved  him. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        33 

She  was  not  herself  aware  that  marriage 
was  the  only  sacrament  of  religion  that  had 
ever  possessed  interest  for  her.  Recollection 
told  her  no  story  of  how  even  as  a  child  she 
had  liked  to  go  to  the  crowded  church  with 
other  children  and  watch  the  procession  of 
the  brides  —  all  mysterious  under  their  white 
veils,  and  following  one  and  another  so  closely 
during  springs  and  autumns  that  in  truth 
they  were  almost  a  procession.  Or  with  what 
excitement  she  had  watched  each  walk  out, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  man  she  had 
chosen  and  henceforth  to  be  called  his  in 
all  things  to  the  end  while  the  loud  crash 
of  the  wedding  march  closed  their  separate 
pasts  with  a  single  melody. 

But  there  were  mothers  in  the  church 
who,  attracted  by  the  child's  expression, 
would  say  to  each  other  a  little  sadly  per 
haps,  that  love  and  marriage  were  destined 
to  be  the  one  overshadowing  or  overshin- 
ing  experience  in  life  to  this  most  human 
and  poetic  soul. 

After  she  had  learned  of  Rowan's  love  for 
her  and  had  begun  to  return  his  love,  the  altar 


34         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

had  thenceforth  become  the  more  personal 
symbol  of  their  destined  happiness.  Every 
marriage  that  she  witnessed  bound  her  more 
sacredly  to  him.  Only  a  few  months  before 
this,  at  the  wedding  of  the  Osborns  —  Kate 
being  her  closest  friend,  and  George  Osborn 
being  Rowan's  —  he  and  she  had  been  the 
only  attendants  ;  and  she  knew  how  many  per 
sons  in  the  church  were  thinking  that  they 
might  be  the  next  to  plight  their  vows;  with 
crimsoning  cheeks  she  had  thought  it  herself. 
Now  there  returned  before  Isabel's  eyes 
the  once  radiant  procession  of  the  brides  — 
but  how  changed  !  And  bitter  questioning 
she  addressed  to  each  !  Had  any  such  con 
fession  been  made  to  any  one  of  them  — 
either  before  marriage  or  afterwards  —  by 
.the  man  she  had  loved  ?  Was  it  for  some 
such  reason  that  one  had  been  content  to 
fold  her  hands  over  her  breast  before  the 
birth  of  her  child  ?  Was  this  why  another 
lived  on,  sad  young  wife,  motherless  ?  Was 
this  why  in  the  town  there  were  women  who 
refused  to  marry  at  all  ?  So  does  a  little 
knowledge  of  evil  move  backward  and 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        35 

darken  for  us  even  the  bright  years  in  which 
it  had  no  place. 

The  congregation  were  assembling  rapidly. 
Among  those  who  passed  further  down  were 
several  of  the  girls  of  Isabel's  set.  How  fresh 
and  sweet  they  looked  as  they  drifted  grace 
fully  down  the  aisles  this  summer  morning ! 
How  light-hearted  !  How  far  away  from  her 
in  her  new  wretchedness  !  Some,  after  they 
were  seated,  glanced  back  with  a  smile.  She 
avoided  their  eyes. 

A  little  later  the  Osborns  entered,  the 
bride  and  groom  of  a  few  months  before. 
Their  pew  was  immediately  in  front  of  hers. 
Kate  wore  mourning  for  her  mother.  As 
she  seated  herself,  she  lifted  her  veil  halfway, 
turned  and  slipped  a  hand  over  the  pew  into 
Isabel's.  The  tremulous  pressure  of  the 
fingers  spoke  of  present  trouble ;  and  as 
Isabel  returned  it  with  a  quick  response  of 
her  own,  a  tear  fell  from  the  hidden  eyes. 

The  young  groom's  eyes  were  also  red  and 
swollen,  but  for  other  reasons  ;  and  he  sat 
in  the  opposite  end  of  the  pew  as  far  as  pos 
sible  from  his  wife's  side.  When  she  a  few 


36         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

moments  later  leaned  toward  him  with 
timidity  and  hesitation,  offering  him  an 
open  prayer-book,  he  took  it  coldly  and  laid 
it  between  them  on  the  cushion.  Isabel 
shuddered :  her  new  knowledge  of  evil  so 
cruelly  opened  her  eyes  to  the  full  under 
standing  of  so  much. 

Little  time  was  left  for  sympathy  with 
Kate.  Nearer  the  pulpit  was  another  pew 
from  which  her  thoughts  had  never  been 
wholly  withdrawn.  She  had  watched  it  with 
the  fascination  of  abhorrence  ;  and  once,  feel 
ing  that  she  could  not  bear  to  see  him  come 
in  with  his  mother  and  younger  brother,  she 
had  started  to  leave  the  church.  But  just 
then  her  grandmother  had  bustled  richly  in, 
followed  by  her  aunt;  and  more  powerful  with 
Isabel  already  than  any  other  feeling  was  the 
wish  to  bury  her  secret  —  Rowan's  secret  — 
in  the  deepest  vault  of  consciousness,  to  seal  it 
up  forever  from  the  knowledge  of  the  world. 

The  next  moment  what  she  so  dreaded 
took  place.  He  walked  quietly  down  the 
aisle  as  usual,  opened  the  pew  for  his 
mother  and  brother  with  the  same  cour- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        37 

tesy,  and  the  three  bent  their  heads  to 
gether  in  prayer. 

"  Grandmother,"  she  whispered  quickly, 
"  will  you  let  me  pass  !  I  am  not  very  well, 
I  think  I  shall  go  home." 

Her  grandmother,  not  heeding  and  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  same  pew,  whispered 
in  return : 

"  The  Merediths  are  here,"  and  continued 
her  satisfying  scrutiny  of  persons  seated 
around. 

Isabel  herself  had  no  sooner  suffered  the 
words  to  escape  than  she  regretted  them. 
Resolved  to  control  herself  from  this  time 
on,  she  unclasped  her  prayer-book,  found 
the  appointed  reading,  and  directed  her 
thoughts  to  the  service  soon  to  begin. 

It  was  part  of  the  confession  of  David  that 
reached  her,  sounding  across  how  many  cen 
turies.  Wrung  from  him  who  had  been  a 
young  man  himself  and  knew  what  a  young 
man  is.  With  time  enough  afterwards  to 
think  of  this  as  soldier,  priest,  prophet,  care 
worn  king,  and  fallible  judge  over  men  — 
with  time  enough  to  think  of  what  his  days 


38         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  nature  had  been  when  he  tended  sheep 
grazing  the  pastures  of  Bethlehem  or  abided 
solitary  with  the  flock  by  night,  lowly  de 
spised  work,  under  the  herded  stars.  Thus 
converting  a  young  man's  memories  into  an 
older  man's  remorses. 

As  she  began  to  read,  the  first  outcry 
gripped  and  cramped  her  heart  like  physical 
pain ;  where  all  her  life  she  had  been  repeat 
ing  mere  words,  she  now  with  eyes  tragically 
opened  discerned  forbidden  meanings : 

"  Thou  art  about  my  path  and  about  my  bed 
.  .  .  the  darkness  is  no  darkness  to  thee.  .  .  . 
Thine  eyes  did  see  my  substance  being  yet  imper 
fect  .  .  .  look  well  if  there  be  any  wickedness 
in  me ;  and  lead  me  in  the  way  everlasting  .  .  . 
haste  thee  unto  me  .  .  .  when  I  cry  unto  thee. 
O  let  not  my  heart  be  inclined  to  an  evil 
thing:1 

She  was  startled  by  a  general  movement 
throughout  the  congregation.  The  minister 
had  advanced  to  the  reading  desk  and  begun 
to  read : 

"  /  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father  and  will 
say  unto  him :  Father •,  /  have  sinned  against 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         39 

heaven  and  before  thee  and  am  no  more  worthy 
to  be  called  thy  son." 

Ages  stretched  their  human  wastes  be 
tween  these  words  of  the  New  Testament 
and  those  other  words  of  the  Old ;  but  the 
parable  of  Christ  really  finished  the  prayer 
of  David  :  in  each  there  was  the  same  young 
prodigal  —  the  ever-falling  youth  of  humanity. 

Another  moment  and  the  whole  congrega 
tion  knelt  and  began  the  confession.  Isabel 
also  from  long  custom  sank  upon  her  knees 
and  started  to  repeat  the  words,  "We  have 
erred  and  strayed  from  thy  ways  like  lost 
sheep."  Then  she  stopped.  She  declined 
to  make  that  confession  with  Rowan  or  to 
join  in  any  service  that  he  shared  and  appro 
priated. 

The  Commandments  now  remained  and  for 
the  first  time  she  shrank  from  them  as  being 
so  awful  and  so  near.  All  our  lives  we  plac 
idly  say  over  to  ourselves  that  man  is  mortal ; 
but  not  until  death  knocks  at  the  threshold 
and  enters  do  we  realize  the  terrors  of  our 
mortality.  All  our  lives  we  repeat  with  dull 
indifference  that  man  is  erring ;  but  only 


40         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

when  the  soul  most  loved  and  trusted  has 
gone  astray,  do  we  begin  to  realize  the  trag 
edy  of  human  imperfection.  So  Isabel  had 
been  used  to  go  through  the  service,  with 
bowed  head  murmuring  at  each  response, 
"  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  and  incline  our 
hearts  to  keep  this  law" 

But  the  laws  themselves  had  been  no  more 
to  her  than  pious  archaic  statements,  as  far 
removed  as  the  cherubim,  the  candlesticks 
and  the  cedar  of  Solomon's  temple.  If  her 
thoughts  had  been  forced  to  the  subject, 
she  would  have  perhaps  admitted  the  ne 
cessity  of  these  rules  for  men  and  women 
ages  ago.  Some  one  of  them  might  have 
meant  much  to  a  girl  in  those  dim  days : 
to  Rebecca  pondering  who  knows  what 
temptation  at  the  well ;  to  Ruth  tempted 
who  knows  how  in  the  corn  and  thinking 
of  Boaz  and  the  barn;  to  Judith  plotting  in 
the  camp;  to  Jephtha's  daughter  out  on  the 
wailing  mountains. 

But  to-day,  sitting  in  an  Episcopal  church 
in  the  closing  years  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury,  holding  a  copy  of  those  old  laws,  and 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         4 1 

thinking  of  Rowan  as  the  breaker  of  the  great 
est  of  them,  Isabel  for  the  first  time  awoke  to 
realization  of  how  close  they  are  still  —  those 
voices  from  the  far  land  of  Shinar ;  how  all 
the  men  and  women  around  her  in  that  church 
still  waged  their  moral  battles  over  those  few 
texts  of  righteousness  ;  how  the  sad  and  sub 
lime  wandering  caravans  of  the  whole  race 
forever  pitch  their  nightly  tents  beneath  that 
same  mountain  of  command. 

Thick  and  low  sounded  the  response  of 
the  worshippers.  She  could  hear  her  grand 
mother's  sonorous  voice,  a  mingling  of 
worldly  triumph, and  indifference  ;  her  aunt's 
plaintive  and  aggrieved.  She  could  hear 
Kate's  needy  and  wounded.  In  imagination 
she  could  hear  his  proud,  noble  mother's  ; 
his  younger  brother's.  Against  the  sound 
of  his  responses  she  closed  all  hearing ;  and 
there  low  on  her  knees,  in  the  ear  of  Heaven 
itself,  she  recorded  against  him  her  unfor- 
giveness  and  her  dismissal  forever. 

An  organ  melody  followed,  thrillingly 
sweet ;  and  borne  outward  on  it  the  beseech 
ing  of  the  All-Merciful : 


42         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  '  Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid, 

Art  thou  sore  distressed  ? 
Come  to  me  ! '   saith  one  ;   *  and,  coming, 
Be  at  rest!'" 

It  was  this  hymn  that  brought  her  in  a 
passion  to  her  feet. 

With  whatsoever  other  feelings  she  had 
sought  the  church,  it  was  at  least  with  the 
hope  that  it  had  a  message  for  her.  She  had 
indeed  listened  to  a  personal  message,  but  it 
was  a  message  delivered  to  the  wrong  per 
son  ;  for  at  every  stage  of  the  worship  she, 
the  innocent,  had  been  forgotten  and  slighted; 
Rowan,  the  guilty,  had  been  consideied  and 
comforted.  David  had  his  like  in  mind  and 
besought  pardon  for  him ;  the  prophet  of 
old  knew  of  a  case  like  his  and  blessed  him ; 
the  apostle  centuries  afterward  looked  on 
and  did  not  condemn;  Christ  himself  had  in 
a  way  told  the  multitude  the  same  story  that 
Rowan  had  told  her,  —  counselling  forgive 
ness.  The  very  hymns  of  the  church  were 
on  Rowan's  side  —  every  one  gone  in  search 
of  the  wanderer.  For  on  this  day  Religion, 
universal  mother  of  needy  souls  and  a  minis- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         43 

ter  of  all  comforts,  was  in  the  mood  to  deal 
only  with  youth  and  human  frailty. 

She  rebelled.  It  was  like  commanding  her 
to  dishonor  a  woman's  strongest  and  purest 
instincts.  It  called  upon  her  to  sympathize 
with  the  evil  that  had  blighted  her  life.  And 
Rowan  himself!  —  in  her  anger  and  suffering 
she  could  think  of  him  in  no  other  way  than 
as  enjoying  this  immortal  chorus  of  anxiety  on 
his  account ;  as  hearing  it  all  with  complacency 
and  self-approval.  It  had  to  her  distorted  im 
agination  the  effect  of  offering  a  reward  to  him 
for  having  sinned;  he  would  have  received  no 
such  attention  had  he  remained  innocent. 

With  one  act  of  complete  revulsion  she 
spurned  it  all :  the  moral  casuistry  that  be 
guiled  him,  the  church  that  cloaked  him; 
spurned  psalm  and  prophet  and  apostle, 
Christ  and  parable  and  song. 

"  Grandmother,"  she  whispered,  "  I  shall 
not  wait  for  the  sermon." 

A  moment  later  she  issued  from  the  church 
doors  and  took  her  way  slowly  homeward 
through  the  deserted  streets,  under  the  lonely 
blue  of  the  unanswering  sky. 


Ill 

THE  Conyers  homestead  was  situated  in 
a  quiet  street  on  the  southern  edge  of  the 
town.  All  the  houses  in  that  block  had 
been  built  by  people  of  English  descent 
near  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  or  at  the 
beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Each 
was  set  apart  from  each  by  lawns,  yards  and 
gardens,  and  further  screened  by  shrubs  and 
vines  in  accordance  with  old  English  custom. 
Where  they  grew  had  once  been  the  heart 
of  a  wilderness  ;  and  above  each  house  stood 
a  few  old  forest  trees,  indifferent  guardsmen 
of  the  camping  generations. 

The  architects  had  given  to  the  buildings 
good  strong  characters ;  the  family  living  in 
each  for  a  hundred  years  or  more  had  long 
since  imparted  reputation.  Out  of  the  win 
dows  girlish  brides  had  looked  on  reddening 
springs  and  whitening  winters  until  they  had 
become  silver-haired  grandmothers  them 
selves  ;  then  had  looked  no  more ;  and  suc 
ceeding  eyes  had  watched  the  swift  pageants 

44 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        45 

of  the  earth,  and  the  swifter  pageants  of 
mortal  hope  and  passion.  Out  of  the  front 
doors,  sons,  grandsons,  and  great-grandsons 
had  gone  away  to  the  cotton  and  sugar  and 
rice  plantations  of  the  South,  to  new  farm 
lands  of  the  West,  to  the  professions  in  cities 
of  the  North.  The  mirrors  within  held  long 
vistas  of  wavering  forms  and  vanishing  faces  ; 
against  the  walls  of  the  rooms  had  beaten 
unremembered  tides  of  strong  and  of  gentle 
voices.  In  the  parlors  what  scenes  of  lights 
and  music,  sheen  of  satins,  flashing  of  gems; 
in  the  dining  rooms  what  feastings  as  in  hale 
England,  with  all  the  robust  humors  of  the 
warm  land,  of  the  warm  heart. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  block  and  shaded 
by  forest  trees,  stood  with  its  heirlooms  and 
treasures  the  home  of  Isabel's  grandmother. 
Known  to  be  heiress  to  this  though  rich  in 
her  own  right  was  Isabel  herself,  that  grand 
mother's  idol,  the  only  one  of  its  beautiful 
women  remaining  yet  to  be  married ;  and  to 
celebrate  with  magnificence  in  this  house 
Isabel's  marriage  to  Rowan  Meredith  had 
long  been  planned  by  the  grandmother  as 


46         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  last  scene  of  her  own  splendid  social 
drama :  having  achieved  that,  she  felt  she 
should  be  willing  to  retire  from  the  stage  — 
and  to  play  only  behind  the  curtain. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  the 
same  Sunday.  In  the  parlors  extending 
along  the  eastern  side  of  the  house  there 
was  a  single  sound  :  the  audible  but  health 
ful  breathing  of  a  sleeper  lying  on  a  sofa  in 
the  coolest  corner.  It  was  Isabel's  grand 
mother  nearing  the  end  of  her  customary  nap. 

Sometimes  there  are  households  in  which 
two  members  suggest  the  single  canvas  of  a 
mediaeval  painter,  depicting  scenes  that  rep 
resent  a  higher  and  a  lower  world :  above 
may  be  peaks,  clouds,  sublimity,  the  Trans 
figuration  ;  underneath,  the  pursuits  and  pas 
sions  of  local  worldly  life  —  some  story  of 
loaves  and  fishes  and  of  a  being  possessed  by 
a  devil.  Isabel  and  her  grandmother  were 
related  as  parts  of  some  such  painting :  the 
grandmother  was  the  bottom  of  the  canvas. 

In  a  little  while  she  awoke  and  uncoiling 
her  figure,  rolled  softly  over  on  her  back 
and  stretched  like  some  drowsy  feline  of  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        47 

jungle ;  then  sitting  up  with  lithe  grace  she 
looked  down  at  the  print  of  her  head  on  the 
pillow  and  deftly  smoothed  it  out.  The 
action  was  characteristic :  she  was  careful  to 
hide  the  traces  of  her  behavior,  and  the  habit 
was  so  strong  that  it  extended  to  things  as 
innocent  as  slumber.  Letting  her  hands  .drop 
to  the  sofa,  she  yawned  and  shook  her  head 
from  side  to  side  with  that  short  laugh  by 
which  we  express  amusement  at  our  own 
comfort  and  well-being. 

Beside  the  sofa,  toe  by  toe  and  heel  by 
heel,  sat  her  slippers  —  the  pads  of  this 
leopardess  of  the  parlors.  She  peered  over 
and  worked  her  nimble  feet  into  these.  On 
a  little  table  at  the  end  of  the  sofa  lay  her 
glasses,  her  fan,  and  a  small  bell.  She  passed 
her  fingers  along  her  temples  in  search  of 
small  disorders  in  the  scant  tufts  of  her  hair, 
put  on  her  glasses,  and  took  the  fan.  Then 
she  glided  across  the  room  to  one  of  the 
front  windows,  sat  down  and  raised  the  blind 
a  few  inches  in  order  to  peep  out :  so  the 
well-fed,  well-fanged  leopardess  with  lowered 
head  gazes  idly  through  the  green  leaves. 


48  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

It  was  very  hot.  With  her  nostrils  close 
to  the  opening  in  the  shutters,  she  inhaled 
the  heated  air  of  the  yard  of  drying  grass. 
On  the  white  window-sill  just  outside,  a 
bronze  wasp  was  whirling  excitedly,  that 
cautious  stinger  which  never  arrives  until 
summer  is  sure.  The  oleanders  in  the  big 
green  tubs  looked  wilted  though  abundantly 
watered  that  morning. 

She  shot  a  furtive  glance  at  the  doors  and 
windows  of  the  houses  across  the  street.  All 
were  closed ;  and  she  formed  her  own  pic 
tures  of  how  people  inside  were  sleeping, 
lounging,  idly  reading  until  evening  coolness 
should  invite  them  again  to  the  verandas  and 
the  streets. 

No  one  passed  but  gay  strolling  negroes. 
She  was  seventy  years  old,  but  her  interest 
in  life  was  insatiable ;  and  it  was  in  part, 
perhaps,  the  secret  of  her  amazing  vitality 
and  youthfalness  that  her  surroundings  never 
bored  her  ;  she  derived  instant  pleasure  from 
the  nearest  spectacle,  always  exercising  her 
powers  humorously  upon  the  world,  never 
upon  herself.  For  lack  of  other  entertain- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        49 

ment  she  now  fell  upon  these  vulnerable 
figures,  and  began  to  criticise  and  to  laugh 
at  them  :  she  did  not  have  to  descend  far  to 
reach  this  level.  Her  undimmed  eyes  swept 
everything  —  walk,  imitative  manners,  imita 
tive  dress. 

Suddenly  she  withdrew  her  face  from  the 
blinds ;  young  Meredith  had  entered  the 
gate  and  was  coming  up  the  pavement.  If 
anything  could  greatly  have  increased  her 
happiness  at  this  moment  it  would  have 
been  the  sight  of  him.  He  had  been  with 
Isabel  until  late  the  night  before ;  he  had 
attended  morning  service  and  afterward  gone 
home  with  his  mother  and  brother  (she  had 
watched  the  carriage  as  it  rolled  away  down 
the  street) ;  he  had  returned  at  this  unusual 
hour.  Such  eagerness  had  her  approval ; 
and  coupling  it  with  Isabel's  demeanor  upon 
leaving  the  table  the  previous  evening,  never 
before  so  radiant  with  love,  she  felt  that  she 
had  ground  for  believing  the  final  ambition 
of  her  life  near  its  fulfilment. 

As  he  advanced,  the  worldly  passions  of  her 
nature  —  the  jungle  passions  —  she  had  no 


50          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

others  —  saluted  him  with  enthusiasm.  His 
head  and  neck  and  bearing,  stature  and 
figure,  family  and  family  history,  house 
and  lands  —  she  inventoried  them  all  once 
more  and  discovered  no  lack.  When  he 
had  rung  the  bell,  she  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  eavesdropped  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Is  Miss  Conyers  at  home  ? " 

The  maid  replied  apologetically : 

"  She  wished  to  be  excused  to-day,  Mr. 
Meredith." 

A  short  silence  followed.  Then  he  spoke 
as  a  man  long  conscious  of  a  peculiar  footing  : 

"  Will  you  tell  her  Mr.  Meredith  would 
like  to  see  her,"  and  without  waiting  to  be 
invited  he  walked  into  the  library  across  the 
hall. 

She  heard  the  maid  go  upstairs  with  hesi 
tating  step. 

Some  time  passed  before  she  came  down. 
She  brought  a  note  and  handed  it  to  him, 
saying  with  some  embarrassment : 

"  She  asked  me  to  give  you  this  note,  Mr. 
Meredith." 

Listening  with  sudden  tenseness  of  atten- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         5 1 

tion,  Mrs.  Conyers  heard  him  draw  the 
sheet  from  the  envelope  and  a  moment  later 
crush  it. 

She  placed  her  eyes  against  the  shutters 
and  watched  him  as  he  walked  away ;  then 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  thoughtful  and 
surprised.  What  was  the  meaning  of  this  P 
The  events  of  the  day  were  rapidly  reviewed  : 
that  Isabel  had  not  spoken  with  her  after 
breakfast ;  that  she  had  gone  to  service  at 
an  unusual  hour  and  had  left  the  church 
before  the  sermon ;  that  she  had  effaced 
herself  at  dinner  and  at  once  thereafter  had 
gone  up  to  her  rooms,  where  she  still 
remained. 

Returning  to  the  sofa  she  lay  down,  hav 
ing    first    rung    her    bell.     When   the  maid 
appeared,  she  rubbed    her    eyelids    and    sat 
sleepily  up  as  though  just    awakened  :    she 
remembered  that  she  had  eavesdropped,  and 
the  maid  must  be  persuaded    that   she  had 
not.     Guilt  is  a  bad  logician. 
"  Where  is  your  Miss  Isabel  ?  " 
"  She  is  in  her  room,  Miss  Henrietta." 
"  Go  up  and  tell  her  that  I  say  come  down 


52          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

into  the  parlors :  it  is  cooler  down  here. 
And  ask  her  whether  she'd  like  some  sher 
bet.  And  bring  me  some  —  bring  it  before 
you  go." 

A  few  moments  later  the  maid  reentered 
with  the  sherbet.  She  lifted  the  cut-glass  dish 
from  the  silver  waiter  with  soft  purrings  of 
the  palate,  and  began  to  attack  the  minute 
snow  mountain  around  the  base  and  up  the 
sides  with  eager  jabs  and  stabs,  depositing 
the  spoonfuls  upon  a  tongue  as  fresh  as  a 
child's.  Momentarily  she  forgot  even  her 
annoyance;  food  instantly  absorbed  and 
placated  her  as  it  does  the  carnivora. 

The  maid  reentered. 

"  She  says  she  doesn't  wish  any  sherbet, 
Miss  Henrietta." 

"  Did  she  say  she  would  come  down  ?  " 

"  She  did  not  say,  Miss  Henrietta." 

"  Go  back  and  tell  her  I'd  like  to  see  her : 
ask  her  to  come  down  into  the  parlors." 
Then  she  hurried  back  to  the  sherbet.  She 
wanted  her  granddaughter,  but  she  wanted 
that  first. 

Her  thoughts  ascended  meantime  to  Isabel 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         5  3 

in  the  room  above.  She  finished  the  sherbet. 
She  waited.  Impatience  darkened  to  uneasi 
ness  and  anger.  Still  she  waited ;  and  her 
finger  nails  began  to  scratch  audibly  at  the 
mahogany  of  her  chair  and  a  light  to  burn 
in  the  tawny  eyes. 

In  the  room  overhead  Isabel's  thoughts 
all  this  time  were  descending  to  her  grand 
mother.  Before  the  message  was  delivered 
it  had  been  her  intention  to  go  down.  Once 
she  had  even  reached  the  head  of  the  stair 
case  ;  but  then  had  faltered  and  shrunk 
back.  When  the  message  came,  it  rendered 
her  less  inclined  to  risk  the  interview.  Com 
ing  at  such  an  hour,  that  message  was  sus 
picious.  She,  moreover,  naturally  had  learned 
to  dread  her  grandmother's  words  when  they 
looked  most  innocent.  Thus  she,  too,  waited 
—  lacking  the  resolution  to  descend. 

As  she  walked  homeward  from  church 
she  realized  that  she  must  take  steps  at  once 
to  discard  Rowan  as  the  duty  of  her  social 
position.  And  here  tangible  perplexities 
instantly  wove  themselves  across  her  path. 


54          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Conscience  had  promptly  arraigned  him  at 
the  altar  of  religion.  It  was  easy  to  con 
demn  him  there.  And  no  one  had  the  right 
to  question  that  arraignment  and  that  con 
demnation.  But  public  severance  of  all  rela 
tions  with  him  in  her  social  world  —  how 
should  she  accomplish  that  and  withhold  her 
justification  ? 

Her  own  kindred  would  wish  to  under 
stand  the  reason.  The  branches  of  these 
scattered  far  and  near  were  prominent  each 
in  its  sphere,  and  all  were  intimately  bound 
together  by  the  one  passion  of  clannish  al 
legiance  to  the  family  past.  She  knew  that 
Rowan's  attentions  had  continued  so  long  and 
had  been  so  marked,  that  her  grandmother  had 
accepted  marriage  between  them  as  a  foregone 
conclusion,  and  in  letters  had  disseminated 
these  prophecies  through  the  family  connec 
tion.  Other  letters  had  even  come  back  to 
Isabel,  containing  evidence  only  too  plain  that 
Rowan  had  been  discussed  and  accepted  in 
domestic  councils.  Against  all  inward  protests 
of  delicacy,  she  had  been  forced  to  receive  con 
gratulations  that  in  this  marriage  she  would 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         55 

preserve  the  traditions  of  the  family  by 
bringing  into  it  a  man  of  good  blood  and 
of  unspotted  name ;  the  two  idols  of  all  the 
far  separated  hearthstones. 

To  the  pride  of  all  these  relatives  she 
added  her  own  pride  —  the  highest.  She 
was  the  last  of  the  women  in  the  direct  line 
yet  unwedded,  and  she  was  sensitive  that 
her  choice  should  not  in  honor  and  in  worth 
fall  short  of  the  alliances  that  had  preceded 
hers.  Involved  in  this  sense  of  pride  she  felt 
that  she  owed  a  duty  to  the  generations  who 
had  borne  her  family  name  in  this  country 
and  to  the  still  earlier  generations  who  had 
given  it  distinction  in  England  —  land  of 
her  womanly  ideals.  To  discard  now  with 
out  a  word  of  explanation  the  man  whose  suit 
she  had  long  been  understood  to  favor  would 
create  wide  disappointment  and  provoke  keen 
question. 

Further  difficulties  confronted  her  from 
Rowan's  side.  His  own  family  and  kin 
dred  were  people  strong  and  not  to  be  trifled 
with,  proud  and  conservative  like  her  own. 
Corresponding  resentments  would  be  aroused 


56          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

among  them,  questions  would  be  asked  that 
had  no  answers.  She  felt  that  her  life  in 
its  most  private  and  sacred  relation  would 
be  publicly  arraigned  and  have  open  judg 
ment  passed  upon  it  by  conflicting  interests 
and  passions  —  and  that  the  mystery  which 
contained  her  justification  must  also  forever 
conceal  it. 

Nevertheless  Rowan  must  be  discarded ; 
she  must  act  quickly  and  for  the  best. 

On  the  very  threshold  one  painful  neces 
sity  faced  her :  the  reserve  of  years  must  be 
laid  aside  and  her  grandmother  admitted  to 
confidence  in  her  plans.  Anything  that  she 
might  do  could  not  escape  those  watchful 
eyes  long  since  grown  impatient.  More 
over  despite  differences  of  character,  she  and 
her  grandmother  had  always  lived  together, 
and  they  must  now  stand  together  before 
their  world  in  regard  to  this  step. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  see  me  about  anything, 
grandmother  ?  " 

Mrs.  Conyers  had  not  heard  Isabel's  quiet 
entrance.  She  was  at  the  window  still :  she 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         57 

turned  softly  in  her  chair  and  looked  across 
the  darkened  room  to  where  Isabel  sat  fac 
ing  her  —  a  barely  discernible  white  figure. 

From  any  other  member  of  her  family  she 
would  roughly  have  demanded  the  explana 
tion  she  desired.  She  was  the  mother  of 
strong  men  (they  were  living  far  from  her 
now),  and  even  in  his  manhood  no  one  of 
them  had  ever  crossed  her  will  without  bear 
ing  away  the  scars  of  her  anger,  and  always 
of  her  revenge.  But  before  this  grandchild, 
whom  she  had  reared  from  infancy,  she  felt 
the  brute  cowardice  which  is  often  the  only 
tribute  that  a  debased  nature  can  pay  to  the 
incorruptible.  Her  love  must  have  its  basis 
in  some  abject  emotion :  it  took  its  origin 
from  fear. 

An  unforeseen  incident,  occurring  when 
Isabel  was  yet  a  child  and  all  but  daily  put 
ting  forth  new  growths  of  nature,  rendered 
very  clear  even  then  the  developing  antago 
nism  and  prospective  relationship  of  these 
two  characters.  In  a  company  of  ladies  the 
grandmother,  drawing  the  conversation  to 
herself,  remarked  with  a  suggestive  laugh 


58          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

that  as  there  were  no  men  present  she  would 
tell  a  certain  story.  "  Grandmother/'  inter 
posed  Isabel,  vaguely  startled,  "  please  do  not 
say  anything  that  you  would  not  say  before 
a  man ;  "  and  for  an  instant,  amid  the  hush, 
the  child  and  the  woman  looked  at  each  other 
like  two  repellent  intelligences,  accidentally 
meeting  out  of  the  heavens  and  the  pit. 

This  had  been  the  first  of  a  long  series  of 
antagonism  and  recoils ;  and  as  the  child 
had  matured,  the  purity  and  loftiness  of  her 
nature  had  by  this  very  contact  grown  chilled 
toward  austerity.  Thus  nature  lends  a  grad 
ual  protective  hardening  to  a  tender  surface 
during  abrasion  with  a  coarser  thing.  It  left 
Isabel  more  reserved  with  her  grandmother 
than  with  any  one  else  of  all  the  persons 
who  entered  into  her  life. 

For  this  reason  Mrs.  Conyers  now  fore 
saw  that  this  interview  would  be  specially 
difficult.  She  had  never  enjoyed  Isabel's 
confidence  in  regard  to  her  love  affairs  — 
and  the  girl  had  had  her  share  of  these ; 
every  attempt  to  gain  it  had  been  met  by 
rebuffs  so  courteous  but  decisive  that  they 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         59 

had  always  wounded    her   pride   and   some 
times  had  lashed  her  to  secret  fury. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  see  me  about  anything, 
grandmother  ?  " 

The  reply  came  very  quickly  :  "  I  wanted 
to  know  whether  you  were  well." 

"  I  am  perfectly  well.  Why  did  you 
think  of  asking  ?  " 

"  You  did  not  seem  well  in  church." 

"I  had  forgotten.    I  was  not  well  in  church." 

Mrs.  Conyers  bent  over  and  drew  a  chair 
in  front  of  her  own.  She  wished  to  watch 
Isabel's  face.  She  had  been  a  close  student 
of  women's  faces  —  and  of  many  men's. 

"  Sit  here.  There  is  a  breeze  through  the 
window." 

"Thank  you.     I'd  rather  sit  here." 

Another  pause  ensued. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  the  last  of  May  to 
be  so  hot  ?  " 

cc  I  cannot  remember  now." 

"  Can    you    imagine    any   one    calling   on 

such  an  afternoon  ?  " 

% 

There  was  no  reply. 


60          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  I  am  glad  no  one  has  been  here.  While 
I  was  asleep  I  thought  I  heard  the  bell." 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  You  were  wise  not  to  stay  for  the  ser 
mon."  Mrs.  Conyers'  voice  trembled  with 
anger  as  she  passed  on  and  on,  seeking  a  pene 
trable  point  for  conversation.  "  I  do  not  be 
lieve  in  using  the  church  to  teach  young  men 
that  they  should  blame  their  fathers  for  their 
own  misdeeds.  If  I  have  done  any  good  in  this 
world,  I  do  not  expect  my  father  and  mother 
to  be  rewarded  for  it  in  the  next ;  if  I  have 
done  wrong,  I  do  not  expect  my  children  to 
be  punished.  I  shall  claim  the  reward  and 
I  shall  stand  the  punishment,  and  that  is  the 
end  of  it.  Teaching  young  men  to  blame 
their  parents  because  they  are  prodigals  is 
nonsense,  and  injurious  nonsense.  I  hope 
you  do  not  imagine,"  she  said,  with  a  stroke 
of  characteristic  coarseness,  "  that  you  get 
any  of  your  faults  from  me." 

"  I  have  never  held  you  responsible, 
grandmother." 

Mrs.  Conyers  could  wait  no  longer. 

"  Isabel,"   she   asked   sharply,   "  why   did 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         6 1 

you  not  see  Rowan  when  he  called  a  few 
minutes  ago  ?  " 

"  Grandmother,  you  know  that  I  do  not 
answer  such  questions." 

How  often  in  years  gone  by  such  had  been 
Isabel's  answer !  The  grandmother  awaited 
it  now.  To  her  surprise  Isabel  after  some 
moments  of  hesitation  replied  without  resent 
ment : 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  see  him." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause ;  then  this 
unexpected  weakness  was  met  with  a  blow. 

"  You  were  eager  enough  to  see  him  last 
night." 

"  I  can  only  hope,"  murmured  Isabel 
aloud  though  wholly  to  herself,  "  that  I  did 
not  make  this  plain  to  him." 

"  But  what  has  happened  since  ?  " 

Nothing  was  said  for  a  while.  The  two 
women  had  been  unable  to  see  each  other 
clearly.  A  moment  later  Isabel  crossed  the 
room  quickly  and  taking  the  chair  in  front 
of  her  grandmother,  searched  that  treacher 
ous  face  imploringly  for  something  better  in 
it  than  she  had  ever  seen  there.  Could  she 


62          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

trust  the  untrustworthy  ?  Would  falseness 
itself  for  once  be  true  ? 

"  Grandmother,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
betrayed  how  she  shrank  from  her  own 
words,  "  before  you  sent  for  me  I  was  about 
to  come  down.  I  wished  to  speak  with  you 
about  a  very  delicate  matter,  a  very  serious 
matter.  You  have  often  reproached  me  for 
not  taking  you  into  my  confidence.  I  am 
going  to  give  you  my  confidence  now." 

At  any  other  moment  the  distrust  and 
indignity  contained  in  the  tone  of  this 
avowal  would  not  have  escaped  Mrs.  Con- 
yers.  But  surprise  riveted  her  attention. 
Isabel  gave  her  no  time  further: 

"  A  thing  has  occurred  in  regard  to  which 
we  must  act  together  for  our  own  sakes  — 
on  account  of  the  servants  in  the  house 
—  on  account  of  our  friends,  so  that  there 
may  be  no  gossip,  no  scandal." 

Nothing  at  times  so  startles  us  as  our 
own  words.  As  the  girl  uttered  the  word 
"  scandal,"  she  rose  frightened  as  though 
it  faced  her  and  began  to  walk  excitedly 
backward  and  forward.  Scandal  had  never 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         63 

touched  her  life.  She  had  never  talked 
scandal ;  had  never  thought  scandal.  Dwell 
ing  under  the  same  roof  with  it  as  the  mas 
ter  passion  of  a  life  and  forced  to  encounter 
it  in  so  many  repulsive  ways,  she  had  needed 
little  virtue  to  regard  it  with  abhorrence. 

Now  she  perceived  that  it  might  be  peril 
ously  near  herself.  When  all  questions  were 
asked  and  no  reasons  were  given,  would  not 
the  seeds  of  gossip  fly  and  sprout  and  bear 
their  kinds  about  her  path  :  and  the  truth 
could  never  be  told.  She  must  walk  on 
through  the  years,  possibly  misjudged,  giving 
no  sign. 

After  a  while  she  returned  to  her  seat. 

"  You  must  promise  me  one  thing,"  she 
said  with  white  and  trembling  lips.  "  I 
give  you  my  confidence  as  far  as  I  can ; 
beyond  that  I  will  not  go.  And  you  shall 
not  ask.  You  are  not  to  try  to  find  out 
from  me  or  any  one  else  more  than  I  tell 
you.  You  must  give  me  your  word  of 
honor ! " 

She  bent  forward  and  looked  her  grand 
mother  wretchedly  in  the  eyes. 


64          The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Mrs.  Conyers  pushed  her  chair  back  as 
though  a  hand  had  struck  her  rudely  in  the 
face. 

"  Isabel/'  she  cried,  "  do  you  forget  to 
whom  you  are  speaking  ?  " 

"  Ah,  grandmother,"  exclaimed  Isabel, 
reckless  of  her  words  by  reason  of  suffer 
ing,  "  it  is  too  late  for  us  to  be  sensitive 
about  our  characters." 

Mrs.  Conyers  rose  with  insulted  pride : 
"  Do  not  come  to  me  with  your  confidence 
until  you  can  give  it." 

Isabel  recrossed  the  room  and  sank  into  the 
seat  she  had  quitted.  Mrs.  Conyers  remained 
standing  a  moment  and  furtively  resumed  hers. 

Whatever  her  failings  had  been  —  one 
might  well  say  her  crimes  —  Isabel  had 
always  treated  her  from  the  level  of  her 
own  high  nature.  But  Mrs.  Conyers  had 
accepted  this  dutiful  demeanor  of  the  years 
as  a  tribute  to  her  own  virtues.  Now  that 
Isabel,  the  one  person  whose  respect  she 
most  desired,  had  openly  avowed  deep  dis 
trust  of  her,  the  shock  was  as  real  as  any 
thing  life  could  have  dealt. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         65 

She  glanced  narrowly  at  Isabel :  the  girl 
had  forgotten  her. 

Mrs.  Conyers  could  shift  as  the  wind 
shifts ;  and  one  of  her  characteristic  re 
sources  in  life  had  been  to  conquer  by  feign 
ing  defeat:  she  often  scaled  her  mountains 
by  seeming  to  take  a  path  which  led  to  the 
valleys.  She  now  crossed  over  and  sat  down 
with  a  peace-making  laugh.  She  attempted 
to  take  Isabel's  hand,  but  it  was  quickly  with 
drawn.  Fearing  that  this  movement  indicated 
a  receding  confidence  Mrs.  Conyers  ignored 
the  rebuff  and  pressed  her  inquiry  in  a  new, 
entirely  practical,  and  pleasant  tone : 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this, 
Isabel?" 

Isabel  turned  upon  her  again  a  silent, 
searchingff-wretched  look  of  appeal. 

Mrs.  Conyers  realized  that  it  could  not 
be  ignored:  "You  know  that  I  promise  any 
thing.  What  did  I  ever  refuse  you  ?  " 

Isabel  sat  up  but  still  remained  silent. 
Mrs.  Conyers  noted  the  indecision  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  careless  dis 
missal  of  the  whole  subject : 


66         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  Let  us  drop  the  subject,  then.  Do  you 
think  it  will  rain?  " 

"  Grandmother,  Rowan  must  not  come 
here  any  more."  Isabel  stopped  abruptly. 
"That  is  all." 

..."  I  merely  wanted  you  to  understand 
this  at  once.  We  must  not  invite  him  here 
any  more." 

..."  If  we  meet  him  at  the  houses  of  our 
friends,  we  must  do  what  we  can  not  to  be 
discourteous  to  them  if  he  is  their  guest." 

..."  If  we  meet  Rowan  alone  anywhere, 
we  must  let  him  know  that  he  is  not  on  the  list 
of  our  acquaintances  any  longer.  That  is  all." 

Isabel  wrung  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Conyers  had  more  than  one  of  the 
traits  of  the  jungle :  she  knew  when  to 
lie  silent  and  how  to  wait.  She  waited 
longer  now,  but  Isabel  had  relapsed  into  her 
own  thoughts.  For  her  the  interview  was  at 
an  end  ;  to  Mrs.  Conyers  it  was  beginning. 
Isabel's  words  and  manner  had  revealed  a  situ 
ation  far  more  serious  than  she  had  believed 
to  exist.  A  sense  of  personal  slights  and 
wounds  gave  way  to  apprehension.  The 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         67 

need  of  the  moment  was  not  passion  and 
resentment,  but  tact  and  coolness  and  appar 
ent  unconcern. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Isabel  ?  " 
She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  frank  and  cordial 
interest  as  though  the  way  were  clear  at  last 
for  the  establishment  of  complete  confidence 
between  them. 

cc  Grandmother,  did  you  not  give  me  your 
word  ?  "  said  Isabel,  sternly.  Mrs.  Conyers 
grew  indignant :  "  But  remember  in  what  a 
light  you  place  me !  I  did  not  expect  you  to 
require  me  to  be  unreasonable  and  unjust. 
Do  you  really  wish  me  to  be  kept  in  the 
dark  in  a  matter  like  this  ?  Must  I  refuse 
to  speak  to  Rowan  and  have  no  reason  ? 
Close  the  house  to  him  and  not  know  why  ? 
Cut  him  in  public  without  his  having  offended 
me  ?  If  he  should  ask  why  I  treat  him  in 
this  way,  what  am  I  to  tell  him  ? " 

"  He  will  never  ask,"  said  Isabel  with 
mournful  abstraction. 

"  But  tell  me  why  you  wish  me  to  act  so 
strangely/' 

"  Believe  that  I  have  reasons." 


68         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  But  ought  I  not  to  know  what  these 
reasons  are  if  I  must  act  upon  them  as 
though  they  were  my  own  ?  " 

Isabel  saw  the  stirrings  of  a  mind  that 
brushed  away  honor  as  an  obstacle  and  that 
was  not  to  be  quieted  until  it  had  been  satis 
fied.  She  sank  back  into  her  chair,  saying 
very  simply  with  deep  disappointment  and 
with  deeper  sorrow : 

"  Ah,  I  might  have  known  !  " 

Mrs.  Conyers  pressed  forward  with  gather 
ing  determination  : 

"  What  happened  last  night  ?  " 

"  I  might  have  known  that  it  was  of  no 
use/'  repeated  Isabel. 

Mrs.  Conyers  waited  several  moments  and 
then  suddenly  changing  her  course  feigned 
the  dismissal  of  the  whole  subject :  "  I  shall 
pay  no  attention  to  this.  I  shall  continue  to 
treat  Rowan  as  I  have  always  treated  him." 

Isabel  started  up  :  "  Grandmother,  if  you 
do,  you  will  regret  it."  Her  voice  rang 
clear  with  hidden  meaning  and  with  hidden 
warning. 

It   fell    upon    the    ear   of  the  other  with 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        69 

threatening  import.  For  her  there  seemed 
to  be  in  it  indeed  the  ruin  of  a  cherished  plan, 
the  loss  of  years  of  hope  and  waiting.  Be 
fore  such  a  possibility  tact  and  coolness  and 
apparent  unconcern  were  swept  away  by  pas 
sion,  brutal  and  unreckoning :  "  Do  you  mean 
that  you  have  refused  Rowan  ?  Or  have  you 
found  out  at  last  that  he  has  no  intention  of 
marrying  you  —  has  never  had  any  ?  " 

Isabel  rose :  "  Excuse  me,"  she  said 
proudly  and  turned  away.  She  reached  the 
door  and  pausing  there  put  out  one  of  her 
hands  against  the  lintel  as  if  with  weakness 
and  raised  the  other  to  her  forehead  as 
though  with  bewilderment  and  indecision. 

Then  she  came  unsteadily  back,  sank 
upon  her  knees,  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
grandmother's  lap,  murmuring  through  her 
fingers :  "  I  have  been  rude  to  you,  grand 
mother  !  Forgive  me !  I  do  not  know 
what  I  have  been  saying.  But  any  little 
trouble  between  us  is  nothing,  nothing ! 
And  do  as  I  beg  you  —  let  this  be  sacred 
and  secret !  And  leave  everything  to  me  !  " 

She  crept  closer  and  lifting  her  face  looked 


70         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

up  into  her  grandmother's.  She  shrank 
back  shuddering  from  what  she  saw  there, 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands ;  then  rising 
she  hurried  from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Conyers  sat  motionless. 

Was  it  true  then  that  the  desire  and  the 
work  of  years  for  this  marriage  had  come  to 
nothing?  And  was  it  true  that  this  grand 
child,  for  whom  she  had  planned  and  plotted, 
did  not  even  respect  her  and  could  tell  her  so 
to  her  face  ? 

Those  insulting  words  rang  in  her  ears 
still :  "  Tou  must  give  me  your  word  of  honor 
.  .  .  it  is  too  late  to  be  sensitive  about  our 
characters." 

She  sat  perfectly  still :  and  in  the  parlors 
there  might  have  been  heard  at  intervals  the 
scratching  of  her  sharp  finger  nails  against  the 
wood  of  the  chair. 


IV 

THE  hot  day  ended.  Toward  sunset  a 
thunder-shower  drenched  the  earth,  and  the 
night  had  begun  cool  and  refreshing. 

Mrs.  Conyers  was  sitting  on  the  front 
veranda,  waiting  for  her  regular  Sunday 
evening  visitor.  She  was  no  longer  the  self- 
revealed  woman  of  the  afternoon,  but  seem 
ingly  an  affable,  harmless  old  lady  of  the  night 
on  the  boundary  of  her  social  world.  She 
was  dressed  with  unfailing  elegance  —  and  her 
taste  lavished  itself  especially  on  black  silk 
and  the  richest  lace.  The  shade  of  helio 
trope  satin  harmonized  with  the  yellowish 
folds  of  her  hair.  Her  small,  warm,  un- 
wrinkled  hands  were  without  rings,  being 
too  delicately  beautiful.  In  one  she  held  a 
tiny  fan,  white  and  soft  like  the  wing  of  a 
moth  ;  on  her  lap  lay  a  handkerchief  as  light 
as  smoke  or  a  web  of  gossamer. 

She  rocked  softly.  She  unfolded  and 
folded  the  night-moth  fan  softly.  She 
touched  the  handkerchief  to  her  rosy  youth- 
71 


Ifr 


7  2         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

ful  lips  softly.  The  south  wind  blew  in  her 
face  softly.  Everything  about  her  was  soft 
ness,  all  her  movements  were  delicate  and 
refined.  Even  the  early  soft  beauty  of  her 
figure  was  not  yet  lost.  (When  a  girl  of 
nineteen,  she  had  measured  herself  by  the 
proportions  of  the  ideal  Venus ;  and  the 
ordeal  had  left  her  with  a  girdle  of  golden 
reflections.) 

But  if  some  limner  had  been  told  the 
whole  truth  of  what  she  was  and  been  re 
quested  to  imagine  a  fitting  body  for  such  a 
soul,  he  would  never  have  painted  Mrs. 
Conyers  as  she  looked.  Nature  is  not 
frank  in  her  characterizations,  lest  we  re 
main  infants  in  discernment.  She  allows 
foul  to  appear  fair,  and  bids  us  become 
educated  in  the  hardy  virtues  of  insight  and 
prudence.  Education  as  yet  had  advanced 
but  little ;  and  the  deepest  students  in  the 
botany  of  women  have  been  able  to  describe 
so  few  kinds  that  no  man,  walking  through 
the  perfumed  enchanted  wood,  knows  at  what 
moment  he  may  step  upon  or  take  hold  of 
some  unknown  deadly  variety. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        73 

As  the  moments  passed,  she  stopped  rock 
ing  and  peered  toward  the  front  gate  under 
the  lamp-post,  saying  to  herself: 

"  He  is  late." 

At  last  the  gate  was  gently  opened  and 
gently  shut. 

"  Ah,"  she  cried,  leaning  back  in  her 
chair  smiling  and  satisfied.  Then  she  sat 
up  rigid.  A  change  passed  over  her  such  as 
comes  over  a  bird  of  prey  when  it  draws  its 
feathers  in  flat  against  its  body  to  lessen 
friction  in  the  swoop.  She  unconsciously 
closed  the  little  fan,  the  little  handkerchief 
disappeared  somewhere. 

As  the  gate  had  opened  and  closed,  on  the 
bricks  of  the  pavement  was  heard  only  the 
tap  of  his  stout  walking-stick ;  for  he  was 
gouty  and  wore  loose  low  shoes  of  the  soft 
est  calfskin,  and  these  made  no  noise  except 
the  slurring  sound  of  slippers. 

Once  he  stopped,  and  planting  his  cane 
far  out  in  the  grass,  reached  stiffly  over  and 
with  undisguised  ejaculations  of  discomfort 
snipped  off  a  piece  of  heliotrope  in  one  of 
the  tubs  of  oleander.  He  shook  away  the 


74         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

raindrops  and  drew  it  through  his  button 
hole,  and  she  could  hear  his  low  "  Ah  !  ah  ! 
ah  !  "  as  he  thrust  his  nose  down  into  it. 

"  There's  nothing  like  it,"  he  said  aloud 
as  though  he  had  consenting  listeners,  "  it 
outsmells  creation." 

He  stopped  at  another  tub  of  flowers 
where  a  humming-bird  moth  was  gathering 
honey  and  jabbed  his  stick  sharply  at  it,  tak 
ing  care  that  the  stick  did  not  reach  peril 
ously  near. 

"  Get  away,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  you've  had 
enough,  sir.  Get  away,  sir." 

Having  reached  a  gravel  walk  that  diverged 
from  the  pavement,  he  turned  off  and  went 
over  to  a  rose-bush  and  walked  around  tap 
ping  the  roses  on  their  heads  as  he  counted 
them  —  cloth-of-gold  roses.  "  Very  well 
done,"  he  said,  "a  large  family — a  good 
sign." 

Thus  he  loitered  along  his  way  with  leisure 
to  enjoy  all  the  chance  trifles  that  gladdened 
it;  for  he  was  one  of  the  old  who  return  at 
the  end  of  life  to  the  simple  innocent  things 
that  pleased  them  as  children. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        75 

She  had  risen  and  advanced  to  the  edge  of 
the  veranda. 

"  Did  you  come  to  see  me  or  did  you 
come  to  see  my  flowers  ? "  she  called  out 
charmingly. 

"  I  came  to  see  the  flowers,  madam,"  he 
called  back.  "  Most  of  all,  the  century  plant : 
how  is  she  ?  " 

She  laughed  delightedly  :  "  Still  harping 
on  my  age,  I  see." 

"  Still  harping,  but  harping  your  praises. 
Century  plants  are  not  necessarily  old :  they 
are  all  young  at  the  beginning  !  I  merely 
meant  you'd  be  blooming  at  a  hundred." 

"You  are  a  sly  old  fox,"  she  retorted  with 
a  spirit.  "  You  give  a  woman  a  dig  on  her 
age  and  then  try  to  make  her  think  it  a 
compliment." 

"  I  gave  myself  a  dig  that  time  :  the  re 
mark  had  to  be  excavated,"  he  said  aloud 
but  as  though  confidentially  to  himself. 
Open  disrespect  marked  his  speech  and  man 
ner  with  her  always ;  and  sooner  or  later 
she  exacted  full  punishment. 

Meantime    he    had    reached    the    steps. 


76         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

There  he  stopped  and  taking  off  his  straw 
hat  looked  up  and  shook  it  reproachfully  at 
the  heavens. 

"  What  a  night,  what  a  night ! "  he  ex 
claimed.  "  And  what  an  injustice  to  a  man 
wading  up  to  his  knees  in  life's  winters/' 

"  How  do  you  do,"  she  said  impatiently, 
always  finding  it  hard  to  put  up  with  his 
lingerings  and  delays.  "  Are  you  coming 
in?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  believe  I  am.  But  no, 
wait.  I'll  not  come  in  until  I  have  made  a 
speech.  It  never  occurred  to  me  before  and 
it  will  never  again.  It's  now  or  never. 

"The  life  of  man  should  last  a  single  year. 
He  should  have  one  spring  for  birth  and 
childhood,  for  play  and  growth,  for  the  end 
ing  of  his  dreams  and  the  beginning  of  his 
love.  One  summer  for  strife  and  toil  and 
passion.  One  autumn  in  which  to  gather 
the  fruits  of  his  deeds  and  to  live  upon  them, 
be  they  sweet  or  bitter.  One  winter  in  which 
to  come  to  an  end  and  wrap  himself  with 
resignation  in  the  snows  of  nature.  Thus 
he  should  never  know  the  pain  of  seeing 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         77 

spring  return  when  there  was  nothing  within 
himself  to  bud  or  be  sown.  Summer  would 
never  rage  and  he  have  no  conflicts  nor 
passions.  Autumn  would  not  pass  and  he 
with  idle  hands  neither  give  nor  gather.  And 
winter  should  not  end  without  extinguishing 
his  tormenting  fires,  and  leaving  him  the 
peace  of  eternal  cold." 

"  Really,"  she  cried,  "  I  have  never  heard 
anything  as  fine  as  that  since  I  used  to  write 
compositions  at  boarding-school." 

"  It  may  be  part  of  one  of  mine  !  "  he 
replied.  "  We  forget  ourselves,  you  know, 
and  then  we  think  we  are  original." 

"  Second  childhood,"  she  suggested.  "  Are 
you  really  coming  in  ?  " 

"  I  am,  madam,"  he  replied.  "  And  guided 
by  your  suggestion,  I  come  as  a  second  child." 

When  he  had  reached  the  top  step,  he 
laid  his  hat  and  cane  on  the  porch  and  took 
her  hands  in  his  —  pressing  them  abstemi 
ously. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  do  not  press  harder,"  he 
said,  lowering  his  voice  as  though  he  fancied 
they  might  be  overheard.  "  I  know  you  are 


78         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

sensitive  in  these  little  matters ;  but  while  I 
dislike  to  appear  lukewarm,  really,  you  know 
it  is  too  late  to  be  ardent,"  and  he  looked  at 
her  ardently. 

She  twisted  her  ringers  out  of  his  with  coy 
shame. 

"  What  an  old  fox,"  she  repeated  gayly. 

"  Well,  you  know  what  goes  with  the 
fox — the  foxess,  or  the  foxina." 

She  had  placed  his  chair  not  quite  beside 
hers  yet  designedly  near,  where  the  light  of 
the  chandelier  in  the  hall  would  fall  out 
upon  him  and  passers  could  see  that  he  was 
there :  she  liked  to  have  him  appear  de 
voted.  For  his  part  he  was  too  little  devoted 
to  care  whether  he  sat  far  or  near,  in  front 
or  behind.  As  the  light  streamed  out  upon 
him,  it  illumined  his  noble  head  of  soft,  sil 
very  hair,  which  fell  over  his  ears  and  fore 
head,  forgotten  and  disordered,  like  a  romping 
boy's.  His  complexion  was  ruddy  —  too 
ruddy  with  high  living;  his  clean-shaven 
face  beautiful  with  candor,  gayety,  and  sweet 
ness  ;  and  his  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  kind  heart 
—  saddened.  He  had  on  a  big  loose  shirt 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        79 

collar  such  as  men  wore  in  Thackeray's  time 
and  a  snow-white  lawn  tie.  In  the  bosom 
of  his  broad-pleated  shirt,  made  glossy  with 
paraffin  starch,  there  was  set  an  old-fashioned 
cluster-diamond  stud  —  so  enormous  that  it 
looked  like  a  large  family  of  young  diamonds 
in  a  golden  nest. 

As  he  took  his  seat,  he  planted  his  big 
gold-headed  ebony  cane  between  his  knees, 
put  his  hat  on  the  head  of  his  cane,  gave  it 
a  twirl,  and  looking  over  sidewise  at  her, 
smiled  with  an  equal  mixture  of  real  liking 
and  settled  abhorrence. 

For  a  good  many  years  these  two  had 
been  —  not  friends  :  she  was  incapable  of  so 
true  a  passion;  he  was  too  capable  to  mis 
apply  it  so  unerringly.  Their  association 
had  assumed  the  character  of  one  of  those 
belated  intimacies,  which  sometimes  spring 
up  in  the  lives  of  aged  men  and  women  when 
each  wants  companionship  but  has  been  left 
companionless. 

Time  was  when  he  could  not  have  believed 
that  any  tie  whatsoever  would  ever  exist  be 
tween  them.  Her  first  husband  had  been 


8o         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

his  first  law  partner ;  and  from  what  he  had 
been  forced  to  observe  concerning  his  part 
ner's  fireside  wretchedness  during  his  few 
years  of  married  life,  he  had  learned  to  fear 
and  to  hate  her.  With  his  quick  temper 
and  honest  way  he  made  no  pretence  of  hid 
ing  his  feeling  —  declined  her  invitations  — 
cut  her  openly  in  society  —  and  said  why. 
When  his  partner  died,  not  killed  indeed 
but  broken-spirited,  he  spoke  his  mind  on 
the  subject  more  publicly  and  plainly  still. 

She  brewed  the  poison  of  revenge  and 
waited. 

A  year  or  two  later  when  his  engagement 
was  announced  her  opportunity  came.  In  a 
single  day  it  was  done  —  so  quietly,  so  per 
fectly,  that  no  one  knew  by  whom.  Scandal 
was  set  running — Scandal,  which  no  pursu 
ing  messengers  of  truth  and  justice  can  ever 
overtake  and  drag  backward  along  its  path. 
His  engagement  was  broken  ;  she  whom  he 
was  to  wed  in  time  married  one  of  his  friends  ; 
and  for  years  his  own  life  all  but  went  to 
pieces. 

Time   is  naught,  existence  a  span.     One 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        8 1 

evening  when  she  was  old  Mrs.  Conyers, 
and  he  old  Judge  Morris,  she  sixty  and  he 
sixty-five,  they  met  at  an  evening  party.  In 
all  those  years  he  had  never  spoken  to  her, 
nurturing  his  original  dislike  and  rather  sus 
pecting  that  it  was  she  who  had  so  ruined 
him.  But  on  this  night  there  had  been  a 
great  supper  and  with  him  a  great  supper 
was  a  great  weakness :  there  had  been  wine, 
and  wine  was  not  a  weakness  at  all,  but  a 
glass  merely  made  him  more  than  happy, 
more  than  kind.  Soon  after  supper  there 
fore  he  was  strolling  through  the  emptied 
rooms  in  a  rather  lonesome  way,  his  face 
like  a  red  moon  in  a  fog,  beseeching  only 
that  it  might  shed  its  rays  impartially  on  any 
approachable  darkness. 

Men  with  wives  and  children  can  well 
afford  to  turn  hard  cold  faces  to  the  outside 
world :  the  warmth  and  tenderness  of  which 
they  are  capable  they  can  exercise  within 
their  own  restricted  enclosures.  No  doubt 
some  of  them  consciously  enjoy  the  contrast 
in  their  two  selves  —  the  one  as  seen  abroad 
and  the  other  as  understood  at  home.  But 


82         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

a  wifeless,  childless  man  —  wandering  at  large 
on  the  heart's  bleak  common  —  has  much  the 
same  reason  to  smile  on  all  that  he  has  to  smile 
on  any :  there  is  no  domestic  enclosure  for 
him:  his  affections  must  embrace  humanity. 

As  he  strolled  through  the  rooms,  then, 
in  his  appealing  way,  seeking  whom  he  could 
attach  himself  to,  he  came  upon  her  seated 
in  a  doorway  connecting  two  rooms.  She 
sat  alone  on  a  short  sofa,  possibly  by  design, 
her  train  so  arranged  that  he  must  step  over 
it  if  he  advanced  —  the  only  being  in  the 
world  that  he  hated.  In  the  embarrassment 
of  turning  his  back  upon  her  or  of  trampling 
her  train,  he  hesitated ;  smiling  with  lowered 
eyelids  she  motioned  him  to  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"  What  a  vivacious,  agreeable  old  woman," 
he  soliloquized  with  enthusiasm  as  he  was 
driven  home  that  night,  sitting  in  the  middle 
of  the  carriage  cushions  with  one  arm  swung 
impartially  through  the  strap  on  each  side. 
"And  she  has  invited  me  to  Sunday  evening 
supper.  Me!  —  after  all  these  years  —  in 
that  house  !  I'll  not  go." 

But  he  went. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        8  3 

"  I'll  not  go  again,"  he  declared  as  he 
reached  home  that  night  and  thought  it  over. 
"  She  is  a  bad  woman." 

But  the  following  Sunday  evening  he 
reached  for  his  hat  and  cane :  cc  I  must 
go  somewhere,"  he  complained  resentfully. 
"  The  saints  of  my  generation  are  enjoying 
the  saint's  rest.  Nobody  is  left  but  a  few 
long-lived  sinners,  of  whom  I  am  a  great 
part.  They  are  the  best  I  can  find,  and  I 
suppose  they  are  the  best  I  deserve." 

Those  who  live  long  miss  many.  With 
out  exception  his  former  associates  at  the  bar 
had  been  summoned  to  appear  before  the 
Judge  who  accepts  no  bribe. 

The  ablest  of  the  middle-aged  lawyers 
often  hurried  over  to  consult  him  in  difficult 
cases.  All  of  them  could  occasionally  listen 
while  he,  praiser  of  a  bygone  time,  recalled 
the  great  period  of  practice  when  he  was  the 
favorite  criminal  lawyer  of  the  first  families, 
defending  their  sons  against  the  common 
wealth  which  he  always  insisted  was  the 
greater  criminal.  The  young  men  about 
town  knew  him  and  were  ready  to  chat  with 


84         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

him  on  street  corners  — but  never  very  long 
at  a  time.  In  his  old  law  offices  he  could 
spend  part  of  every  day,  guiding  or  guying 
his  nephew  Barbee,  who  had  just  begun  to 
practice.  But  when  all  his  social  resources 
were  reckoned,  his  days  contained  great 
voids  and  his  nights  were  lonelier  still.  The 
society  of  women  remained  a  necessity  of 
his  life ;  and  the  only  woman  in  town, 
always  bright,  always  full  of  ideas,  and  al 
ways  glad  to  see  him  (the  main  difficulty) 
was  Mrs.  Conyers. 

So  that  for  years  now  he  had  been  going 
regularly  on  Sunday  evenings.  He  kept  up 
apologies  to  his  conscience  regularly  also  ; 
but  it  must  have  become  clear  that  his  con 
science  was  not  a  fire  to  make  him  boil ;  it 
was  merely  a  few  coals  to  keep  him  bubbling. 

In  this  acceptance  of  her  at  the  end  of  life 
there  was  of  course  mournful  evidence  of  his 
own  deterioration.  During  the  years  between 
being  a  young  man  and  being  an  old  one 
he  had  so  far  descended  toward  her  level, 
that  upon  renewing  acquaintance  with  her 
he  actually  thought  that  she  had  improved. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         85 

Youth  with  its  white-flaming  ideals  is  the 
great  separator ;  by  middle  age  most  of  us 
have  become  so  shaken  down,  on  life's  rough 
road,  to  a  certain  equality  of  bearing  and 
forbearing,  that  miscellaneous  comradeship 
becomes  easy  and  rather  comforting ;  while 
extremely  aged  people  are  as  compatible  and 
as  miserable  as  disabled  old  eagles,  grouped 
with  a  few  inches  of  each  other's  beaks  and 
claws  on  the  sleek  perches  of  a  cage. 

This  evening  therefore,  as  he  took  his  seat 
and  looked  across  at  her,  so  richly  dressed, 
so  youthful,  soft,  and  rosy,  he  all  but  thanked 
heaven  out  loud  that  she  was  at  home. 

"  Madam/'  he  cried,  "  you  are  a  wonder 
ful  and  bewitching  old  lady  "  —  it  was  on 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say  "  beldam." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  replied  briskly,  "  have 
you  been  so  long  in  rinding  it  out?  " 

"  It  is  a  fresh  discovery  every  time  I  come." 

"  Then  you  forget  me  in  the  meanwhile." 

cc  I  never  forget  you  unless  I  am  thinking 
of  Miss  Isabel.  How  is  she  ?  " 

"  Not  well." 

"Then  I'm  not  well!     No  one  is  well! 


86         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Everybody  must  suffer  if  she  is  suffering. 
The  universe  sympathizes." 

"  She  is  not  ill.     She  is  in  trouble." 

"  But  she  must  not  be  in  trouble  !  She 
has  done  nothing  to  be  in  trouble  about. 
Who  troubles  her  ?  What  troubles  her  ?  " 

"  She  will  not  tell." 

"  Ah  !  "  he  cried,  checking  himself  gravely 
and  dropping  the  subject. 

She  noted  the  decisive  change  of  tone  :  it 
was  not  by  this  direct  route  that  she  would 
be  able  to  enter  his  confidence. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  the  sermon  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  The  sermon  on  the  prodigal  ?  Well, 
it  is  too  late  for  such  sermons  to  be  levelled 
at  me ;  and  I  never  listen  to  those  aimed  at 
other  people." 

"  At  what  other  people  do  you  suppose 
this  one  could  have  been  directed  ?  "  She 
asked  the  question  most  carelessly,  lifting 
her  imponderable  handkerchief  and  letting  it 
drop  into  her  lap  as  a  sign  of  how  little  her 
interest  weighed. 

"  It  is  not  my  duty  to  judge." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         87 

"  We  cannot  help  our  thoughts,  you 
know." 

"  I  think  we  can,  madam  ;  and  I  also 
think  we  can  hold  our  tongues,"  and  he 
laughed  at  her  very  good-naturedly.  "  Some 
times  we  can  even  help  to  hold  other  peo 
ple's —  if  they  are  long." 

"  Oh,  what  a  rude  speech  to  a  lady ! " 
she  exclaimed  gallantly.  "  Did  you  see  the 
Osborns  at  church  ?  And  did  you  notice 
him  ?  What  an  unhappy  marriage  !  He 
is  breaking  Kate's  heart.  And  to  think 
that  his  character  —  or  the  lack  of  it  — 
should  have  been  discovered  only  when  it 
was  too  late !  How  can  you  men  so  cloak 
yourselves  before  marriage  ?  Why  not  tell 
women  the  truth  then  instead  of  leaving 
them  to  find  it  out  afterward  ?  Are  he  and 
Rowan  as  good  friends  as  ever  ?  "  The 
question  was  asked  with  the  air  of  guileless- 
ness. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that,"  he  replied 
dryly.  "  I  never  knew  Rowan  to  drop  his 
friends  because  they  had  failings :  it  would 
break  up  all  friendships,  I  imagine." 


88         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"Well,  I  cannot  help  my  thoughts,  and  I 
think  George  Osborn  was  the  prodigal  aimed 
at  in  the  sermon.  Everybody  thought  so." 

"  How  does  she  know  what  everybody 
thought  ? "  commented  the  Judge  to  him 
self.  He  tapped  the  porch  nervously  with 
his  cane,  sniffed  his  heliotrope  and  said 
irrelevantly : 

"  Ah  me,  what  a  beautiful  night !  What 
a  beautiful  night !  " 

The  implied  rebuff  provoked  her.  Irri 
tation  winged  a  venomous  little  shaft : 

"At  least  no  woman  has  ever  held  you 
responsible  for  her  unhappiness." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  madam,"  he  replied, 
"  the  only  irreproachable  husband  in  this 
world  is  the  man  who  has  no  wife." 

"  By  the  way,"  she  continued,  "  in  all 
these  years  you  have  not  told  me  why  you 
never  married.  Come  now,  confess  !  " 

How  well  she  knew!  How  often  as  she 
had  driven  through  the  streets  and  observed 
him  sitting  alone  in  the  door  of  his  office 
or  walking  aimlessly  about,  she  had  leaned 
back  and  laughed. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        89 

"  Madam/*  he  replied,  for  he  did  not  like 
the  question,  "  neither  have  you  ever  told 
me  why  you  married  three  times.  Come 
now,  confess." 

It  would  soon  be  time  for  him  to  leave ; 
and  still  she  had  not  gained  her  point. 

"  Rowan  was  here  this  afternoon,"  she  re 
marked  carelessly.  He  was  sitting  so  that 
the  light  fell  sidewise  on  his  face.  She 
noted  how  alert  it  became,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"  Isabel  refused  to  see  him." 

He  wheeled  round  and  faced  her  with 
pain  and  surprise. 

"  Refused  to  see  him  !  " 

"  She  has  told  me  since  that  she  never 
intends  to  see  him." 

"  Never  intends  to  see  Rowan  again ! " 
he  repeated  the  incredible  words,  "  not  see 
Rowan  again  ! " 

"  She  says  we  are  to  drop  him  from  the 
list  of  our  acquaintances." 

"Ah!"  he  cried  with  impetuous  sadness, 
"  they  must  not  quarrel  !  They  must  not !  " 

"  But  they  have  quarrelled,"  she  replied, 


90         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

revealing  her  own  anxiety.  "  Now  they 
must  be  reconciled.  That  is  why  I  come 
to  you.  I  am  Isabel's  guardian ;  you  were 
Rowan's.  Each  of  us  wishes  this  marriage. 
Isabel  loves  Rowan.  I  know  that ;  there 
fore  it  is  not  her  fault.  Therefore  it  is 
Rowan's  fault.  Therefore  he  has  said  some 
thing  or  he  has  done  something  to  offend 
her  deeply.  Therefore  if  you  do  not  know 
what  this  is,  you  must  find  out.  And  you 
must  come  and  tell  me.  May  I  depend 
upon  you  ?  " 

He  had  become  grave.  At  length  he 
said  :  "  I  shall  go  straight  to  Rowan  and 
ask  him." 

"  No  !  "  she  cried,  laying  her  hand  heavily 
on  his  arm,  "  Isabel  bound  me  to  secrecy. 
She  does  not  wish  this  to  be  known." 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed,  angry  at  being  en 
trapped  into  a  broken  confidence,  "  then 
Miss  Isabel  binds  me  also :  I  shall  honor 
her  wish/'  and  he  rose. 

She  kept  her  seat  but  yawned  so  that  he 
might  notice  it.  "  You  are  not  going  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  going.      I   have   stayed   too 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture         9  i 

long  already.  Good  night !  Good  night !  " 
He  spoke  curtly  over  his  shoulders  as  he 
hurried  down  the  steps. 

She  had  forgotten  him  before  he  reached 
the  street,  having  no  need  just  then  to  keep 
him  longer  in  mind.  She  had  threshed  out 
the  one  grain  of  wheat,  the  single  compact 
little  truth,  that  she  wanted.  This  was  the 
certainty  that  Judge  Morris,  who  was  the 
old  family  lawyer  of  the  Merediths,  and  had 
been  Rowan's  guardian,  and  had  indeed 
known  him  intimately  from  childhood,  was 
in  ignorance  of  any  reason  for  the  present 
trouble ;  otherwise  he  would  not  have  said 
that  he  should  go  to  Rowan  and  ask  the 
explanation.  She  knew  him  to  be  incapable 
of  duplicity ;  in  truth  she  rather  despised 
him  because  he  had  never  cultivated  a  taste 
for  the  delights  and  resources  of  hypocrisy. 

Her  next  step  must  be  to  talk  at  once  with 
the  other  person  vitally  interested  —  Rowan's 
mother.  She  felt  no  especial  admiration  for 
that  grave,  earnest,  and  rather  sombre  lady ; 
but  neither  did  she  feel  admiration  for  her 
sterling  knife  and  fork :  still  she  made 


92         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

them    serviceable    for    the    ulterior   ends  of 
being. 

Her  plan  then  embraced  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
Meredith  in  the  morning  with  the  view  of 
discovering  whether  she  was  aware  of  the 
estrangement,  and  if  aware  whether  she 
would  in  any  unintentional  way  throw  light 
upon  the  cause  of  it.  Moreover  —  and 
this  was  kept  clearly  in  view  —  there  would 
be  the  chance  of  meeting  Rowan  himself, 
whom  she  also  determined  to  see  as  soon  as 
possible :  she  might  find  him  at  home,  or 
she  might  encounter  him  on  the  road  or 
riding  over  his  farm.  But  this  visit  must 
be  made  without  Isabel's  knowledge.  It 
must  further  be  made  to  appear  incidental 
to  Mrs.  Meredith  herself — or  to  Rowan. 
She  arranged  therefore  with  that  tortuous 
and  superfluous  calculation  of  which  hypocrisy 
is  such  a  master  —  and  mistress  —  that  she 
would  at  breakfast,  in  Isabel's  presence,  order 
the  carriage,  and  announce  her  intention  of 
going  out  to  the  farm  of  Ambrose  Webb. 
Ambrose  Webb  was  a  close  neighbor  of  the 
Merediths.  He  owned  a  small  estate,  most 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        93 

of  which  was  good  grass-land  that  was  usually 
rented  for  pasture.  She  had  for  years  kept 
her  cows  there  when  dry.  This  arrange 
ment  furnished  her  the  opportunity  for  more 
trips  to  the  farm  than  interest  in  her  dairy 
warranted ;  it  made  her  Mrs.  Meredith's 
most  frequent  incidental  visitor. 

Having  thus  determined  upon  her  imme 
diate  course  for  the  prompt  unravelling  of 
this  mysterious  matter,  she  dismissed  it  from 
her  mind,  passed  into  her  bedroom  and  was 
soon  asleep  :  a  smile  played  over  the  sweet 
old  face. 

The  Judge  walked  slowly  across  the  town 
in  the  moonlight. 

It  was  his  rule  to  get  home  to  his  rooms 
by  ten  o'clock ;  and  people  living  on  the 
several  streets  leading  that  way  were  used  to 
hearing  him  come  tapping  along  before  that 
hour.  If  they  sat  in  their  doorways  and  the 
night  was  dark,  they  gave  him  a  pleasant 
greeting  through  the  darkness  ;  if  there  was 
a  moon  or  if  he  could  be  seen  under  a  lamp 
post,  they  added  smiles.  No  one  loved  him 


94         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

supremely,  but  every  one  liked  him  a  little 

—  on  the  whole,  a  stable  state   for  a  man. 
For  his  part  he  accosted  every  one  that  he 
could  see  in  a  bright  cheery  way  and  with 
a    quick   inquiring    glance   as   though  every 
heart  had  its  trouble  and  needed  just  a  little 
kindness.     He  was  reasonably  sure  that  the 
old  had  their  troubles  already  and  that  the 
children   would   have   theirs   some    day ;    so 
that   it  was  merely   the    difference    between 
sympathizing  with   the  present  and  sympa 
thizing  with    the    future.     As    he    careened 
along  night  after   night,  then,  friendly  little 
gusts  of  salutation  blew  the  desolate  drifting 
figure  over  the  homeward  course. 

His  rooms  were  near  the  heart  of  the  town, 
in  a  shady  street  well  filled  with  law  offices : 
these  were  of  red  brick  with  green  shutters 

—  green  when  not  white  with  dust.     The  fire 
department  was  in  the  same  block,  though  he 
himself  did  not  need  to  be  safeguarded  from 
conflagrations :    the  fires  which  had  always 
troubled  him  could  not  have  been  reached 
v/ith   ladder  and  hose.     There  were  two  or 
three  livery  stables  also,  the  chairs  of  which 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        95 

he  patronized  liberally,  but  not  the  vehicles. 
And  there  was  a  grocery,  where  he  some 
times  bought  crystallized  citron  and  Brazil 
nuts,  a  curious  kind  of  condiment  of  his  own 
devising :  a  pound  of  citron  to  a  pound  of 
nuts,  if  all  were  sound.  He  used  to  keep 
little  brown  paper  bags  of  these  locked  in  his 
drawer  with  legal  papers  and  munched  them 
sometimes  while  preparing  murder  cases. 

At  the  upper  corner  of  the  block,  opposite 
each  other,  were  a  saloon  and  the  jail,  two 
establishments  which  contributed  little  to 
each  other's  support,  though  well  inclined 
to  do  so.  The  law  offices  seemed  of  old  to 
have  started  in  a  compact  procession  for  the 
jail,  but  at  a  certain  point  to  have  paused 
with  the  understanding  that  none  should 
seek  undue  advantage  by  greater  proximity. 
Issuing  from  this  street  at  one  end  and  turn 
ing  to  the  left,  you  came  to  the  court 
house —  the  bar  of  chancery ;  issuing  from 
it  at  the  other  end  and  turning  to  the  right, 
you  came  to  the  hotel  —  the  bar  of  corn. 
The  lawyers  were  usually  solicitors  at  large 
and  impartial  practitioners  at  each  bar.  In 


96         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  court  room  they  sometimes  tried  to 
prove  an  alibi  for  their  clients ;  at  the  hotel 
they  often  succeeded  in  proving  one  for 
themselves. 

These  law  offices  were  raised  a  foot  or  two 
above  the  level  of  the  street.  The  front 
rooms  could  be  used  for  clients  who  were 
so  important  that  they  should  be  seen ;  the 
back  rooms  were  for  such  as  brought  busi 
ness,  but  not  necessarily  fame.  Driving 
through  this  street,  the  wives  of  the  lawyers 
could  lean  forward  in  their  carriages  and  if 
their  husbands  were  busy,  they  could  smile 
and  bow ;  if  their  husbands  were  idle,  they 
could  look  straight  ahead. 

He  passed  under  the  shadow  of  the  old 
court-house    where    in     his    prime    he    had 
fought  his  legal  battles  against  the  common 
wealth.      He  had  been  a  great  lawyer  and  he 
knew  it  (if  he  had  married  he  might  have 
been   Chief  Justice).      Then  he  turned  the 
corner  and  entered   the  street    of  jurispru 
dence    and    the    jail.       About    midway     he 
reached  the  staircase  opening  from  the  side 
walk  to  his  rooms  above. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        97 

He  was  not  poor  and  he  could  have  lived 
richly  had  he  wished.  But  when  a  man 
does  not  marry  there  are  so  many  other 
things  that  he  never  espouses ;  and  he  was 
not  wedded  to  luxury.  As  he  lighted  the 
chandelier  over  the  centre-table  in  his  sitting 
room,  the  light  revealed  an  establishment 
every  article  of  which,  if  it  had  no  virtues,  at 
least  possessed  habits  :  certainly  everything 
had  its  own  way.  He  put  his  hat  and  cane 
on  the  table,  not  caring  to  go  back  to  the  hat- 
rack  in  his  little  hall,  and  seated  himself  in 
his  olive  morocco  chair.  As  he  did  so,  every 
thing  in  the  room  —  the  chairs,  the  curtains, 
the  rugs,  the  card-table,  the  punch-bowl,  the 
other  walking-sticks,  and  the  rubbers  and 
umbrellas  —  seemed  to  say  in  an  affectionate 
chorus  :  "  Well,  now  that  you  are  in  safe  for 
the  night,  we  feel  relieved.  So  good  night 
and  pleasant  dreams  to  you,  for  we  are  going 
to  sleep  ;  "  and  to  sleep  they  went. 

The  gas  alone  flared  up  and  said,  cc  I'll 
stay  up  with  him." 

He  drew  out  and  wiped  his  glasses  and 
reached  for  the  local  Sunday  paper,  his  Sun- 


98         The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

day  evening  Bible.  He  had  read  it  in  the 
morning,  but  he  always  gleaned  at  night : 
he  met  so  many  of  his  friends  by  reading 
their  advertisements.  But  to-night  he  spread 
it  across  his  knees  and  turning  to  the  table 
lifted  the  top  of  a  box  of  cigars,  an  orderly 
responsive  family ;  the  paper  slipped  to  the 
floor  and  lay  forgotten  behind  his  heels. 

He  leaned  back  in  the  chair  with  his  cigar 
in  his  mouth  and  his  eyes  directed  toward 
the  opposite  wall,  where  in  an  oval  frame 
hung  the  life-size  portrait  of  an  old  bulldog. 
The  eyes  were  blue  and  watery  and  as  full 
of  suffering  as  a  seal's ;  from  the  extremity 
of  the  lower  jaw  a  tooth  stood  up  like  a 
shoemaker's  peg;  and  over  the  entire  face 
was  stamped  the  majesty,  the  patience,  and 
the  manly  woes  of  a  nature  that  had  lived 
deeply  and  too  long.  The  Judge's  eyes 
rested  on  this  comrade  face. 

The  events  of  the  day  had  left  him  trou 
bled.  Any  sermon  on  the  prodigal  always 
touches  men ;  even  if  it  does  not  prick  their 
memories,  it  can  always  stir  their  imagina 
tions.  Whenever  he  heard  one,  his  mind 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        99 

went  back  to  the  years  when  she  who  after 
wards  became  Rowan's  mother  had  cast  him 
off,  so  settling  life  for  him.  For  after  that 
experience  he  had  put  away  the  thought 
of  marriage.  "  To  be  so  treated  once  is 
enough,"  he  had  said  sternly  and  proudly. 
True,  in  after  years  she  had  come  back  to 
him  as  far  as  friendship  could  bring  her  back, 
since  she  was  then  the  wife  of  another ;  but 
every  year  of  knowing  her  thus  had  only 
served  to  deepen  the  sense  of  his  loss.  He 
had  long  since  fallen  into  the  habit  of  think 
ing  this  over  of  Sunday  evenings  before 
going  to  bed,  and  as  the  end  of  life  closed  in 
upon  him,  he  dwelt  upon  it  more  and  more. 
These  familiar  thoughts  swarmed  back 
to-night,  but  with  them  were  mingled  new 
depressing  ones.  Nothing  now  perhaps  could 
have  caused  him  such  distress  as  the  thought 
that  Rowan  and  Isabel  would  never  marry. 
All  the  love  that  he  had  any  right  to  pour  into 
any  life,  he  had  always  poured  with  passion 
ate  and  useless  yearnings  into  Rowan's  — 
son  of  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved  — 
the  boy  that  should  have  been  his  own. 


ioo       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

There  came  an  interruption.  A  light 
quick  step  was  heard  mounting  the  stairs.  A 
latch  key  was  impatiently  inserted  in  the 
hall  door.  A  bamboo  cane  was  dropped 
loudly  into  the  holder  of  the  hat-rack  ;  a  soft 
hat  was  thrown  down  carelessly  somewhere 
—  it  sounded  like  a  wet  mop  flung  into  a 
corner ;  and  there  entered  a  young  man 
straight,  slender,  keen-faced,  with  red  hair, 
a  freckled  skin,  large  thin  red  ears,  and  a 
strong  red  mouth.  As  he  stepped  forward 
into  the  light,  he  paused,  parting  the  hair  out 
of  his  eyes  and  blinking. 

"  Good  evening,  uncle,"  he  said  in  a  shrill 
key. 

"  Well,  sir." 

Barbee  looked  the  Judge  carefully  over;  he 
took  the  Judge's  hat  and  cane  from  the  table 
and  hung  them  in  the  hall ;  he  walked  over 
and  picked  up  the  newspaper  from  between 
the  Judge's  legs  and  placed  it  at  his  elbow ; 
he  set  the  ash  tray  near  the  edge  of  the  table 
within  easy  reach  of  the  cigar.  Then  he 
threw  himself  into  a  chair  across  the  room, 
lighted  a  cigarette,  blew  the  smoke  toward 


The  Mettle  of  the-  Pasture*      tor 

the  ceiling  like  the  steam  of  a  little  whistle 
signalling  to  stop  work. 

"Well,  uncle,"  he  said  in  a  tone  in  which 
a  lawyer  might  announce  to  his  partner  the 
settlement  of  a  long-disputed  point,  "  Mar 
guerite  is  in  love  with  me  !  " 

The  Judge  smoked  on,  his  eyes  resting  on 
the  wall. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  in  love  with  me.  The  truth 
had  to  come  out  sometime,  and  it  came  out 
to-night.  And  now  the  joy  of  life  is  gone 
for  me  !  As  soon  as  a  woman  falls  in  love 
with  a  man,  his  peace  is  at  an  end.  But  I 
am  determined  that  it  shall  not  interfere  with 
my  practice." 

"  What  practice  ?  " 

"  The  practice  of  my  profession,  sir ! 
The  profession  of  yourself  and  of  the 
great  men  of  the  past:  such  places  have 
to  be  filled." 

"  Filled,  but  not  filled  with  the  same 
thing." 

"  You  should  have  seen  the  other  hapless 
wretches  there  to-night !  Pining  for  a  smile  ! 
Moths  begging  the  candle  to  scorch  them ! 


102        The"  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

And  the  candle  was  as  cold  as  the  north  star 
and  as  distant." 

Barbee  rose  and  took  a  turn  across  the 
room  and  returning  to  his  chair  stood  before 
it. 

"  If  Marguerite  had  only  waited,  had  con 
cealed  herself  a  little  longer  !  Why  did  she 
not  keep  me  in  doubt  until  I  had  won  some 
great  case  !  Think  of  a  scene  like  this  :  a 
crowded  court  room  some  afternoon ;  people 
outside  the  doors  and  windows  craning  their 
necks  to  see  and  hear  me ;  the  judge 
nervous  and  excited  ;  the  members  of  the  bar 
beside  themselves  with  jealousy  as  I  arise 
and  confront  the  criminal  and  jury.  Margue 
rite  is  seated  just  behind  the  jury ;  I  know 
why  she  chose  that  seat :  she  wished  to  study 
me  to  the  best  advantage.  I  try  to  catch 
her  eye ;  she  will  not  look  at  me.  For  three 
hours  my  eloquence  storms.  The  judge 
acknowledges  to  a  tear,  the  jurors  reach 
for  their  handkerchiefs,  the  people  in  the 
court  room  sob  like  the  skies  of  autumn. 
As  I  finish,  the  accused  arises  and  addresses 
the  court :  £  May  it  please  your  honor,  in 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       103 

the  face  of  such  a  masterly  prosecution,  I 
can  no  longer  pretend  to  be  innocent.  Sir 
(addressing  me),  I  congratulate  you  upon 
your  magnificent  service  to  the  common 
wealth.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  need 
not  retire  to  bring  in  any  verdict :  I  bring  it  in 
myself,  I  am  guilty,  and  my  only  wish  is  to 
be  hanged.  I  suggest  that  you  have  it  done 
at  once  in  order  that  nothing  may  mar  the 
success  of  this  occasion  ! '  That  night  Margue 
rite  sends  for  me :  that  would  have  been  the 
time  for  a  declaration !  I  have  a  notion 
if  I  can  extricate  myself  without  wounding 
this  poor  little  innocent,  to  forswear  matri 
mony  and  march  on  to  fame." 

"  March  on  to  bed." 

cc  Marguerite  is  going  to  give  a  ball,  uncle, 
a  brilliant  ball  merely  to  celebrate  this  irre 
pressible  efflux  and  panorama  of  her  emo 
tions.  Watch  me  at  that  ball,  uncle!  Mark 
the  rising  Romeo  of  the  firm  when  Margue 
rite,  the  youthful  Juliet  of  this  town  —  " 

A  hand  waved  him  quietly  toward  his  bed 
room. 

"  Well,  good  night,  sir,  good  night.    When 


1 04       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  lark  sings  at  heaven's  gate  I'll  greet  thee, 
uncle.  My  poor  Marguerite!  —  Good  night, 
uncle,  good  night." 

He  was  only  nineteen. 

The  Judge  returned  to  his  thoughts. 

He  must  have  thought  a  long  time :  the 
clock  not  far  away  struck  twelve.  He  took 
off  his  glasses,  putting  them  negligently  on 
the  edge  of  the  ash  tray  which  tipped  over 
beneath  their  weight  and  fell  to  the  floor : 
he  picked  up  his  glasses,  but  let  the  ashes 
lie.  Then  he  stooped  down  to  take  off  his 
shoes,  not  without  sounds  of  bodily  discom 
fort. 

Aroused  by  these  sounds  or  for  other 
reasons  not  to  be  discovered,  there  emerged 
from  under  a  table  on  which  was  piled  "  The 
Lives  of  the  Chief  Justices"  a  bulldog, 
cylindrical  and  rigid  with  years.  Having 
reached  a  decorous  position  before  the  Judge, 
by  the  slow  action  of  the  necessary  machin 
ery  he  lowered  the  posterior  end  of  the 
cylinder  to  the  floor  and  watched  him. 

"  Well,  did  I  get  them  off  about  right  ?  " 

The  dog  with   a  private  glance  of  sym- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       105 

pathy  up  into  the  Judge's  face  returned  to 
his  black  goatskin  rug  under  the  Chief 
Justices ;  and  the  Judge,  turning  off  the 
burners  in  the  chandelier  and  striking  a 
match,  groped  his  way  in  his  sock  feet  to 
his  bedroom  —  to  the  bed  with  its  one 
pillow. 


OUT  in  the  country  next  morning  it  was 
not  yet  break  of  dawn.  The  stars,  thickly 
flung  about,  were  flashing  low  and  yellow  as 
at  midnight,  but  on  the  horizon  the  great 
change  had  begun.  Not  with  colors  of  rose 
or  pearl  but  as  the  mysterious  foreknowledge 
of  the  morning,  when  a  vast  swift  herald 
rushes  up  from  the  east  and  sweeps  onward 
across  high  space,  bidding  the  earth  be  in 
readiness  for  the  drama  of  the  sun. 

The  land,  heavy  with  life,  lay  wrapped  in 
silence,  steeped  in  rest.  Not  a  bird  in  wet 
hedge  or  evergreen  had  drawn  nimble  head 
from  nimble  wing.  In  meadow  and  pasture 
fold  and  herd  had  sunk  down  satisfied.  A 
black  brook  brawling  through  a  distant  wood 
sounded  loud  in  the  stillness.  Under  the 
forest  trees  around  the  home  of  the  Mere 
diths  only  drops  of  dew  might  have  been 
heard  splashing  downward  from  leaf  to  leaf. 
In  the  house  all  slept.  The  mind,  wake- 
fullest  of  happy  or  of  suffering  things,  had 
1 06 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 07 

Jost  consciousness  of  joy  and  care  save  as 
these  had  been  crowded  down  into  the 
chamber  which  lies  beneath  our  sleep,  whence 
they  made  themselves  audible  through  the 
thin  flooring  as  the  noise  of  dreams. 

Among  the  parts  of  the  day  during  which 
man  may  match  the  elements  of  the  world 
within  him  to  the  world  without  —  his  songs 
with  its  sunrises,  toil  with  noontide,  prayer 
with  nightfall,  slumber  with  dark  —  there  is 
one  to  stir  within  him  the  greatest  sense  of 
responsibility  :  the  hour  of  dawn. 

If  he  awaken  then  and  be  alone,  he  is 
earliest  to  enter  the  silent  empty  theatre  of 
the  earth  where  the  human  drama  is  soon  to 
recommence.  Not  a  mummer  has  stalked 
forth;  not  an  auditor  sits  waiting.  He  him 
self,  as  one  of  the  characters  in  this  ancient 
miracle  play  of  nature,  pauses  at  the  point 
of  separation  between  all  that  he  has  en 
acted  and  all  that  he  will  enact.  Yesterday 
he  was  in  the  thick  of  action.  Between  then 
and  now  lies  the  night,  stretching  like  a  bar 
of  verdure  across  wearying  sands.  In  that 
verdure  he  has  rested ;  he  has  drunk  forget- 


io8        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

fulness  and  self-renewal  from  those  deep  wells 
of  sleep.  Soon  the  play  will  be  ordered  on 
again  and  he  must  take  his  place  for  parts 
that  are  new  and  confusing  to  all.  The  ser 
vitors  of  the  morning  have  entered  and  hung 
wall  and  ceiling  with  gorgeous  draperies;  the 
dust  has  been  sprinkled;  fresh  airs  are  blow 
ing  ;  and  there  is  music,  the  living  orchestra 
of  the  living  earth.  Well  for  the  waker  then 
if  he  can  look  back  upon  the  role  he  has 
played  with  a  quiet  conscience,  and  as  natu 
rally  as  the  earth  greets  the  sun  step  forth 
upon  the  stage  to  continue  or  to  end  his 
brief  part  in  the  long  drama  of  destiny. 

The  horizon  had  hardly  begun  to  turn 
red  when  a  young  man,  stretched  on  his  bed 
by  an  open  window,  awoke  from  troubled 
sleep.  He  lay  for  a  few  moments  without 
moving,  then  he  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed.  His  hands  rested  listlessly  on  his  knee 
caps  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sky-line 
crimsoning  above  his  distant  woods. 

After  a  while  he  went  over  and  sat  at  one 
of  the  windows,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the 
path  of  the  coming  sun  ;  and  a  great  tragedy 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       109 

of  men  sat  there  within  him :  the  tragedy 
that  has  wandered  long  and  that  wanders 
ever,  showing  its  face  in  all  lands,  retaining 
its  youth  in  all  ages ;  the  tragedy  of  love 
that  heeds  not  law,  and  the  tragedy  of  law 
forever  punishing  heedless  love. 

Gradually  the  sounds  of  life  began.  From 
the  shrubs  under  his  window,  from  the  or 
chard  and  the  wet  weeds  of  fence  corners, 
the  birds  reentered  upon  their  lives.  Far 
off  in  the  meadows  the  cattle  rose  from  their 
warm  dry  places,  stretched  themselves  and 
awoke  the  echoes  of  the  wide  rolling  land 
with  peaceful  lowing.  A  brood  mare  in  a 
grazing  lot  sent  forth  her  quick  nostril  call 
to  the  foal  capering  too  wildly  about  her,  and 
nozzled  it  with  rebuking  affection.  On  the 
rosy  hillsides  white  lambs  were  leaping  and 
bleating,  or  running  down  out  of  sight  under 
the  white  sea-fog  of  the  valleys.  A  milk  cart 
rattled  along  the  turnpike  toward  the  town. 

It  had  become  broad  day. 

He  started  up  and  crossed  the  hall  to  the 
bedroom  opposite,  and  stood  looking  down 
at  his  younger  brother.  How  quiet  Dent's 


1 1  o        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

sleep  was ;  how  clear  the  current  of  his  life 
had  run  and  would  run  always  !  No  trag 
edy  would  ever  separate  him  and  the  woman 
he  loved. 

When  he  went  downstairs  the  perfect 
orderliness  of  his  mother's  housekeeping 
had  been  before  him.  Doors  and  windows 
had  been  opened  to  the  morning  freshness, 
sweeping  and  dusting  had  been  done,  not  a 
servant  was  in  sight.  His  setters  lay  wait 
ing  on  the  porch  and  as  he  stepped  out  they 
hurried  up  with  glistening  eyes  and  soft  bark 
ings  and  followed  him  as  he  passed  around 
to  the  barn.  Work  was  in  progress  there : 
the  play  of  currycombs,  the  whirl  of  the  cut 
ting-box,  the  noise  of  the  mangers,  the  bel 
lowing  of  calves,  the  rich  streamy  sounds  of 
the  milking.  He  called  his  men  to  him  one 
after  another,  laying  out  the  work  of  the  day. 

When  he  returned  to  the  house  he  saw 
his  mother  walking  on  the  front  pavement ; 
she  held  flowers  freshly  plucked  for  the 
breakfast  table :  a  woman  of  large  mould, 
grave,  proud,  noble ;  an  ideal  of  her  place 
and  time. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 1 1 

"Is  the  lord  of  the  manor  ready  for  his 
breakfast  ? "  she  asked  as  she  came  forward, 
smiling. 

"  I  am  ready,  mother,"  he  replied  without 
smiling,  touching  his  lips  to  her  cheek. 

She  linked  her  arm  in  his  as  they  ascended 
the  steps.  At  the  top  she  drew  him  gently 
around  until  they  faced  the  landscape  rolling 
wide  before  them. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful !  "  she  exclaimed  with 
a  deep  narrow  love  of  her  land.  "  I  never 
see  it  without  thinking  of  it  as  it  will  be 
years  hence.  I  can  see  you  riding  over  it 
then  and  your  children  playing  around  the 
house  and  some  one  sitting  here  where  we 
stand,  watching  them  at  their  play  and  watch 
ing  you  in  the  distance  at  your  work.  But 
I  have  been  waiting  a  long  time  for  her  to 
take  my  place  —  and  to  take  her  own,"  and 
she  leaned  heavily  on  his  arm  as  a  sign  of 
her  dependence  but  out  of  weakness  also  (for 
she  did  not  tell  him  all).  "  I  am  impatient 
to  hear  the  voice  of  your  children,  Rowan. 
Do  you  never  wish  to  hear  them  yourself?  " 

As  they  stood  silent,  footsteps  approached 


1 1 2        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

through  the  hall  and  turning  they  saw  Dent 
with  a  book  in  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  grand  people  never  coming  to 
breakfast  ? "  he  asked,  frowning  with  pre 
tended  impatience,  "  so  that  a  laboring  man 
may  go  to  his  work  ? " 

He  was  of  short  but  well-knit  figure. 
Spectacles  and  a  thoughtful  face  of  great 
refinement  gave  him  the  student's  stamp. 
His  undergraduate  course  at  college  would 
end  in  a  few  weeks.  Postgraduate  work 
was  to  begin  during  the  summer.  An  as 
sistant  professorship,  then  a  full  professor 
ship  —  these  were  successive  stations  already 
marked  by  him  on  the  clear  track  of  life ; 
and  he  was  now  moving  toward  them  with 
straight  and  steady  aim.  Sometimes  we 
encounter  personalities  which  seem  to  move 
through  the  discords  of  this  life  as  though 
guided  by  laws  of  harmony ;  they  know 
neither  outward  check  nor  inward  swerving, 
and  are  endowed  with  that  peaceful  passion 
for  toil  which  does  the  world's  work  and  is 
one  of  the  marks  of  genius. 

He  was  one  of  these  —  a  growth  of  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       113 

new  time  not  comprehended  by  his  mother. 
She  could  neither  understand  it  nor  him. 
The  pain  which  this  had  given  him  at  first 
he  had  soon  outgrown ;  and  what  might 
have  been  a  tragedy  to  another  nature 
melted  away  in  the  steady  sunlight  of  his 
entire  reasonableness.  Perhaps  he  realized 
that  the  scientific  son  can  never  be  the  idol 
of  a  household  until  he  is  born  of  scientific 
parents. 

As  mother  and  elder  son  now  turned 
to  greet  him,  the  mother  was  not  herself 
aware  that  she  still  leaned  upon  the  arm  of 
Rowan  and  that  Dent  walked  into  the  break 
fast  room  alone. 

Less  than  usual  was  said  during  the  meal. 
They  were  a  reserved  household,  inclined 
to  the  small  nobilities  of  silence.  (It  is 
questionable  whether  talkative  families  ever 
have  much  to  say.)  This  morning  each  had 
especial  reason  for  self-communing. 

When  they  had  finished  breakfast  and 
came  out  into  the  hall,  Dent  paused  at  one 
of  the  parlor  doors. 

"Mother/'  he   said   simply,  "come  into 


1 1 4       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  parlor  a  moment,  will  you  ?  And  Rowan, 
I  should  like  to  see  you  also." 

They  followed  him  with  surprise  and  all 
seated  themselves. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  addressing  her  with 
a  clear  beautiful  light  in  his  gray  eyes,  yet 
not  without  the  reserve  which  he  always 
felt  and  always  inspired,  "  I  wish  to  tell  you 
that  I  am  engaged  to  Pansy  Vaughan.  And 
to  tell  you  also,  Rowan.  You  know  that  I 
finish  college  this  year ;  she  does  also.  We 
came  to  an  understanding  yesterday  after 
noon  and  I  wish  you  both  to  know  it  at 
once.  We  expect  to  be  married  in  the 
autumn  as  soon  as  I  am  of  age  and  a  man 
in  my  own  right.  Mother,  Pansy  is  coming 
to  see  you  ;  and,  Rowan,  I  hope  you  will 
go  to  see  Pansy.  Both  of  you  will  like  her 
and  be  proud  of  her  when  you  know  her." 

He  rose  as  though  he  had  rounded  his 
communication  to  a  perfect  shape.  "  Now  I 
must  get  to  my  work.  Good  morning,"  and 
with  a  smile  for  each  he  walked  quietly  out 
of  the  room.  He  knew  that  he  could  not 
expect  their  congratulations  at  that  moment 


The  Mettle  of  the   Pasture       1 1 5 

and  that  further  conference  would  be  awk 
ward  for  all.  He  could  merely  tell  them  the 
truth  and  leave  the  rest  to  the  argument  of 
time. 

"  But  I  cannot  believe  it,  Rowan !  I  can 
not  !  " 

Mrs.  Meredith  sat  regarding  her  elder  son 
with  incredulity  and  distress.  The  shock  of 
the  news  was  for  certain  reasons  even  greater 
to  him  ;  so  that  he  could  not  yet  command 
himself  sufficiently  to  comfort  her.  After  a 
few  moments  she  resumed  :  "  I  did  not  know 
that  Dent  had  begun  to  think  about  girls. 
He  never  said  so.  He  has  never  cared  for 
society.  He  has  seemed  absorbed  in  his 
studies.  And  now —  Dent  in  love,  Dent  en 
gaged,  Dent  to  be  married  in  the  autumn  — 
why,  Rowan,  am  I  dreaming,  am  I  in  my 
senses  ?  And  to  this  girl !  She  has  en 
trapped  him  —  poor,  innocent,  unsuspecting 
Dent !  My  poor,  little,  short-sighted  book 
worm."  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  but  she 
laughed  also.  She  had  a  mother's  hope  that 
this  trouble  would  turn  to  comedy.  She 


1 1 6        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

went  on  quickly :  "  Did  you  know  any 
thing  about  this  ?  Has  he  ever  spoken  to 
you  about  it?  " 

"  No,  I  am  just  as  much  surprised.  But 
then  Dent  never  speaks  in  advance." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  timidly  :  "  I 
thought  perhaps  it  was  this  that  has  been 
troubling  you.  You  have  been  trying  to 
hide  it  from  me." 

He  dropped  his  eyes  quickly  and  made 
no  reply. 

"  And  do  you  suppose  he  is  in  earnest, 
Rowan  ?  " 

"He  would  never  jest  on  such  a  subject." 

"  I  mean,  do  you  think  he  knows  his  own 
mind?" 

"  He  always  does." 

"  But  would  he  marry  against  my  wishes  ?  " 

"  He  takes  it  for  granted  that  you  will  be 
pleased  :  he  said  so." 

"  But  how  can  he  think  I'll  be  pleased  ? 
I  have  never  spoken  to  this  girl  in  my  life. 
I  have  never  seen  her  except  when  we  have 
passed  them  on  the  turnpike.  I  never  spoke 
to  her  father  but  once  and  that  was  years 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 1 7 

ago  when  he  came  here  one  cold  winter  after 
noon  to  buy  a  shock  of  fodder  from  your 
father." 

She  v/as  a  white  character;  but  even  the 
whiteness  of  ermine  gains  by  being  flecked 
with  blackness.  "  How  can  he  treat  me  with 
so  little  consideration  ?  It  is  just  as  if  he 
had  said :  c  Good  morning,  mother.  I  am 
going  to  disgrace  the  family  by  my  marriage, 
but  I  know  you  will  be  delighted  —  good 


mornine/ 


"  You  forget  that  Dent  does  not  think  he 
will  disgrace  the  family.  He  said  you  would 
be  proud  of  her." 

"  Well,  when  the  day  comes  for  me  to  be 
proud  of  this,  there  will  not  be  much  left 
to  be  ashamed  of.  Rowan,  for  once  I  shall 
interfere." 

"  How  can  you  interfere  ?  " 

"  Then  you  must :  you  are  his  guardian." 

"  I  shall  not  be  his  guardian  by  the 
autumn.  Dent  has  arranged  this  perfectly, 
mother,  as  he  always  arranges  everything." 

She  returned  to  her  point.  "  But  he  must 
be  kept  from  making  such  a  mistake !  Talk 


1 1 8        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

to  him  as  a  man.  Advise  him,  show  him 
that  he  will  tie  a  millstone  around  his  neck, 
ruin  his  whole  life.  I  am  willing  to  leave 
myself  out  and  to  forget  what  is  due  me, 
what  is  due  you,  what  is  due  the  memory  of 
his  father  and  of  my  father  :  for  his  own  sake 
he  must  not  marry  this  girl." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  It  is  set 
tled,  mother,"  he  added  consolingly,  "  and  I 
have  so  much  confidence  in  Dent  that  I  be 
lieve  what  he  says  :  we  shall  be  proud  of  her 
when  we  know  her." 

She  sat  awhile  in  despair.  Then  she  said 
with  fresh  access  of  conviction  :  "  This  is 
what  comes  of  so  much  science  :  it  always 
tends  to  make  a  man  common  in  his  social 
tastes.  You  need  not  smile  at  me  in  that 
pitying  way,  for  it  is  true :  it  destroys  aris 
tocratic  feeling ;  and  there  is  more  need  of 
aristocratic  feeling  in  a  democracy  than  any 
where  else :  because  it  is  the  only  thing  that 
can  be  aristocratic.  That  is  what  science  has 
done  for  Dent !  And  this  girl !  —  the  pub 
lic  school  has  tried  to  make  her  uncommon, 
and  the  Girl's  College  has  attempted  to  make 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 1 9 

her  more  uncommon  ;  and  now  I  suppose  she 
actually  thinks  she  is  uncommon :  otherwise 
she  would  never  have  imagined  that  she  could 
marry  a  son  of  mine.  Smile  on,  I  know  I 
amuse  you  !  You  think  I  am  not  abreast  of 
the  times.  I  am  glad  I  am  not.  I  prefer 
my  own.  Dent  should  have  studied  for  the 
church  —  with  his  love  of  books,  and  his 
splendid  mind,  and  his  grave,  beautiful  char 
acter.  Then  he  would  never  have  thought 
of  marrying  beneath  him  socially  ;  he  would 
have  realized  that  if  he  did,  he  could  never 
rise.  Once  in  the  church  and  with  the  right 
kind  of  wife,  he  might  some  day  have  become 
a  bishop  :  I  have  always  wanted  a  bishop  in 
the  family.  But  he  set  his  heart  upon  a  pro 
fessorship,  and  I  suppose  a  professor  does  not 
have  to  be  particular  about  whom  he  marries." 

cc  A  professor  has  to  be  particular  only  to 
please  himself —  and  the  woman.  His  choice 
is  not  regulated  by  salaries  and  congregations." 

She  returned  to  her  point :  "  You  breed 
fine  cattle  and  fine  sheep,  and  you  try  to 
improve  the  strain  of  your  setters.  You 
know  how  you  do  it.  What  right  has  Dent 


1 20       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

to  injure  his  children  in  the  race  for  life  by 
giving  them  an  inferior  mother  ?  Are  not 
children  to  be  as  much  regarded  in  their 
rights  of  descent  as  rams  and  poodles?*' 

"You  forget  that  the  first  families  in  all 
civilizations  have  kept  themselves  alive  and 
at  the  summit  by  intermarriage  with  good, 
clean,  rich  blood  of  people  whom  they  have 
considered  beneath  them." 

"  But  certainly  my  family  is  not  among 
these.  It  is  certainly  alive  and  it  is  certainly 
not  dying  out.  I  cannot  discuss  the  subject 
with  you,  if  you  once  begin  that  argument. 
Are  you  going  to  call  on  her  ? " 

"  Certainly.  It  was  Dent's  wish  and  it  is 
right  that  I  should." 

"  Then  I  think  I  shall  go  with  you,  Rowan. 
Dent  said  she  was  coming  to  see  me ;  but  I 
think  I  should  rather  go  to  see  her.  When 
ever  I  wished  to  leave,  I  could  get  away,  but 
if  she  came  here,  I  couldn't." 

"  When  should  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  hurry  me  !  I  shall  need  time 
—  a  great  deal  of  time!  Do  you  suppose 
they  have  a  parlor  ?  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 2 1 
shine  in  the  kitchen  in  comparison  with  the 


tins." 


She  had  a  wry  face  ;  then  her  brow  cleared 
and  she  added  with  relief: 

"  But  I  must  put  this  whole  trouble  out  of 
my  mind  at  present !  It  is  too  close  to  me,  I 
cannot  even  see  it.  I  shall  call  on  the  girl  with 
you  and  then  I  shall  talk  quietly  with  Dent. 
Until  then  I  must  try  to  forget  it.  Besides,  I 
got  up  this  morning  with  something  else  on 
my  mind.  It  is  not  Dent's  unwisdom  that 
distresses  me." 

Her  tone  indicated  that  she  had  passed  to 
a  more  important  topic.  If  any  one  had  told 
her  that  her  sons  were  not  equally  dear,  the 
wound  of  such  injustice  would  never  have 
healed.  In  all  that  she  could  do  for  both 
there  had  never  been  maternal  discrimina 
tion  ;  but  the  heart  of  a  woman  cannot  help 
feeling  things  that  the  heart  of  a  mother  does 
not ;  and  she  discriminated  as  a  woman.  This 
was  evident  now  as  she  waived  her  young  son's 
affairs. 

"  It  is  not  Dent  that  I  have  been  think 
ing  of  this  morning,"  she  repeated.  "  Why 


122       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

is  it  not  you  that  come  to  tell  me  of  your 
engagement  ?  Why  have  you  not  set  Dent 
an  example  as  to  the  kind  of  woman  he 
ought  to  marry  ?  How  many  more  years 
must  he  and  I  wait  ?  " 

They  were  seated  opposite  each  other. 
He  was  ready  for  riding  out  on  the  farm, 
his  hat  on  his  crossed  knees,  gloves  and  whip 
in  hand.  Her  heart  yearned  over  him  as  he 
pulled  at  his  gloves,  his  head  dropped  for 
ward  so  that  his  face  was  hidden. 

"  Now  that  the  subject  has  come  up  in 
this  unexpected  way,  I  want  to  tell  you  how 
long  I  have  wished  to  see  you  married. 
I  have  never  spoken  because  my  idea  is 
that  a  mother  should  not  advise  unless  she 
believes  it  necessary.  And  in  your  case  it 
has  not  been  necessary.  I  have  known  your 
choice,  and  long  before  it  became  yours,  it 
became  mine.  She  is  my  ideal  among  them 
all.  I  know  women,  Rowan,  and  I  know 
she  is  worthy  of  you  and  I  could  not  say 
more.  She  is  high-minded  and  that  quality 
is  so  rare  in  either  sex.  Without  it  what  is 
any  wife  worth  to  a  high-minded  man  ?  And 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       123 

I  have  watched  her.  With  all  her  pride 
and  modesty  I  have  discovered  her  secret  — 
she  loves  you.  Then  why  have  you  waited  ? 
Why  do  you  still  wait?" 

He  did  not  answer  and  she  continued 
with  deeper  feeling : 

"  Life  is  so  uncertain  to  all  of  us  and  of 
course  to  me  !  I  want  to  see  you  wedded  to 
her,  see  her  brought  here  as  mistress  of  this 
house,  and  live  to  hear  the  laughter  of  your 
children."  She  finished  with  solemn  emo 
tion  :  <c  It  has  been  my  prayer.  Rowan." 

She  became  silent  with  her  recollections 
of  her  own  early  life  for  a  moment  and  then 
resumed : 

"  Nothing  ever  makes  up  for  the  loss  of 
such  years  —  the  first  years  of  happy  mar 
riage.  If  we  have  had  these,  no  matter  what 
happens  afterward,  we  have  not  lived  for 
nothing.  It  becomes  easier  for  us  to  be 
kind  and  good  afterward,  to  take  an  interest 
in  life,  to  believe  in  our  fellow-creatures,  and 
in  God." 

He  sprang  up. 

"  Mother,  I  cannot  speak  with  you  about 


1 24       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

this  now."  He  turned  quickly  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  her,  looking  out  of  doors ; 
and  he  spoke  over  his  shoulder  and  his  voice 
was  broken  :  "  You  have  had  one  disap 
pointment  this  morning  :  it  is  enough.  But 
do  not  think  of  my  marrying  —  of  my  ever 
marrying.  Dent  must  take  my  place  at  the 
head  of  the  house.  It  is  all  over  with  me  ! 
But  I  cannot  speak  with  you  about  this  now/* 
and  he  started  quickly  to  leave  the  parlors. 

She  rose  and  put  her  arm  around  his  waist, 
walking  beside  him. 

"  You  do  not  mind  my  speaking  to  you 
about  this,  Rowan  ?  "  she  said,  sore  at  hav 
ing  touched  some  trouble  which  she  felt  that 
he  had  long  been  hiding  from  her,  and  with 
full  respect  for  the  privacies  of  his  life. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  cried,  choking  with 
emotion.  "  Ah,  mother,  mother  ! "  —  and 
he  gently  disengaged  himself  from  her  arms. 

She  watched  him  as  he  rode  out  of  sight. 
Then  she  returned  and  sat  in  the  chair  which 
he  had  quitted,  folding  her  hands  in  her 
lap. 

For  her  it  was  one  of  the  moments  when 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       125 

we  are  reminded  that  our  lives  are  not  in 
our  keeping,  and  that  whatsoever  is  to  befall 
us  originates  in  sources  beyond  our  power. 
Our  wills  may  indeed  reach  the  length  of  our 
arms  or  as  far  as  our  voices  can  penetrate 
space ;  but  without  us  and  within  us  moves 
one  universe  that  saves  us  or  ruins  us  only 
for  its  own  purposes  ;  and  we  are  no  more 
free  amid  its  laws  than  the  leaves  of  the  for 
est  are  free  to  decide  their  own  shapes  and 
season  of  unfolding,  to  order  the  showers 
by  which  they  are  to  be  nourished  and  the 
storms  which  shall  scatter  them  at  last. 

Above  every  other  she  had  cherished  the 
wish  for  a  marriage  between  Rowan  and 
Isabel  Conyers ;  now  for  reasons  unknown 
to  her  it  seemed  that  this  desire  was  never 
to  be  realized.  She  did  not  know  the  mean 
ing  of  what  Rowan  had  just  said  to  her  ;  but 
she  did  not  doubt  there  was  meaning  behind 
it,  grave  meaning.  Her  next  most  serious 
concern  would  have  been  that  in  time  Dent 
likewise  should  choose  a  wife  wisely ;  now 
he  had  announced  to  her  his  intention  to 
wed  prematurely  and  most  foolishly ;  she 


126        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

could  not  altogether  shake  off  the  conviction 
that  he  would  do  what  he  had  said  he 
should. 

As  for  Dent  it  was  well-nigh  the  first 
anxiety  that  he  had  ever  caused  her.  If  her 
affection  for  him  was  less  poignant,  being 
tenderness  stored  rather  than  tenderness  ex 
ercised,  this  resulted  from  the  very  absence 
of  his  demand  for  it.  He  had  always  needed 
her  so  little,  had  always  needed  every  one 
so  little,  unfolding  his  life  from  the  first  and 
drawing  from  the  impersonal  universe  what 
ever  it  required  with  the  quietude  and  ef 
ficiency  of  a  prospering  plant.  She  lacked 
imagination,  or  she  might  have  thought  of 
Dent  as  a  filial  sunflower,  which  turned  the 
blossom  of  its  life  always  faithfully  and 
beautifully  toward  her,  but  stood  rooted  in 
the  soil  of  knowledge  that  she  could  not 
supply. 

What  she  had  always  believed  she  could 
see  in  him  was  the  perpetuation  under  a 
new  form  of  his  father  and  the  men  of  his 
father's  line. 

These    had    for   generations    been    grave 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       127 

mental  workers :  ministers,  lawyers,  pro 
fessors  in  theological  seminaries  ;  narrow- 
minded,  strong-minded;  upright,  unbending; 
black-browed,  black-coated  ;  with  a  pas 
sion  always  for  dealing  in  justice  and 
dealing  out  justice,  human  or  heavenly ; 
most  of  all,  gratified  when  in  theological 
seminaries,  when  they  could  assert  them 
selves  as  inerrant  interpreters  of  the  Most 
High.  The  portraits  of  two  of  them  hung 
in  the  dining  room  now,  placed  there  as  if  to 
watch  the  table  and  see  that  grace  was  never 
left  unsaid,  that  there  be  no  levity  at  meat 
nor  heresy  taken  in  with  the  pudding. 
Other  portraits  were  also  in  other  rooms  — 
they  always  had  themselves  painted  for  pos 
terity,  seldom  or  never  their  wives. 

Some  of  the  books  they  had  written  were 
in  the  library,  lucid  explanations  of  the  First 
Cause  and  of  how  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth 
should  be  looked  at  from  without  and  from 
within.  Some  that  they  had  most  loved  to 
read  were  likewise  there  :  "  Pollock's  Course 
of  Time  "  ;  the  slow  outpourings  of  Young, 
sad  sectary  ;  Milton,  with  the  passages  on 


128        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Hell  approvingly  underscored  —  not  as  great 
poetry,  but  as  great  doctrine ;  nowhere  in 
the  bookcases  a  sign  of  the  "Areopagitica," 
of  "Comus,"  and  "L' Allegro";  but  most 
prominent  the  writings  of  Jonathan  Edwards, 
hoarsest  of  the  whole  flock  of  New  World 
theological  ravens. 

Her  marriage  into  this  family  had  caused 
universal  surprise.  It  had  followed  closely 
upon  the  scandals  in  regard  to  the  wild 
young  Ravenel  Morris,  the  man  she  loved, 
the  man  she  had  promised  to  marry.  These 
scandals  had  driven  her  to  the  opposite  ex 
treme  from  her  first  choice  by  one  of  life's 
familiar  reactions  ;  and  in  her  wounded  flight 
she  had  thrown  herself  into  the  arms  of  a 
man  whom  people  called  irreproachable.  He 
was  a  grave  lawyer,  one  of  the  best  of  his 
kind;  nevertheless  he  and  she,  when  joined 
for  the  one  voyage  of  two  human  spirits,  were 
like  a  funeral  barge  lashed  to  some  dancing 
boat,  golden-oared,  white-sailed,  decked  with 
flowers,  Hope  at  the  helm  and  Pleasure  at 
the  prow. 

For  she  herself  had  sprung  from  a  radi- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       129 

cally  different  stock :  from  sanguine,  hot- 
blooded  men ;  congressmen  shaping  the 
worldly  history  of  their  fellow-beings  and 
leaving  the  non-worldly  to  take  care  of  it 
self;  soldiers  illustrious  in  the  army  and 
navy ;  hale  country  gentlemen  who  took 
the  lead  in  the  country's  hardy  sports  and 
pleasures ;  all  sowing  their  wild  oats  early  in 
life  with  hands  that  no  power  could  stay ; 
not  always  living  to  reap,  but  always  leaving 
enough  reaping  to  be  done  by  the  sad  inno 
cent  who  never  sow ;  fathers  of  large  fami 
lies  ;  and  even  when  breaking  the  hearts  of 
their  wives,  never  losing  their  love ;  for  with 
their  large  open  frailties  being  men  without 
crime  and  cowardice,  tyrannies,  meannesses. 

With  these  two  unlike  hereditary  strains 
before  her  she  had,  during  the  years,  slowly 
devised  the  maternal  philosophy  of  her  sons. 

Out  of  those  grave  mental  workers  had 
come  Dent  —  her  student.  She  loved  to 
believe  that  in  the  making  of  him  her  own 
blood  asserted  itself  by  drawing  him  away 
from  the  tyrannical  interpretation  of  God  to 
the  neutral  investigation  of  the  earth,  from 


130       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

black  theology  to  sunlit  science  —  so  leaving 
him  at  work  and  at  peace,  the  ancestral  an 
tagonisms  becoming  neutralized  by  being 
blended. 

But  Rowan  !  while  he  was  yet  a  little  fel 
low,  and  she  and  her  young  husband  would 
sit  watching  him  at  play,  characteristics  re 
vealed  themselves  which  led  her  to  shake 
her  head  rebukingly  and  say :  "  He  gets 
these  traits  from  you.''  At  other  times 
contradictory  characteristics  appeared  and 
the  father,  looking  silently  at  her,  would 
in  effect  inquire  :  "  Whence  does  he  derive 
these  ? "  On  both  accounts  she  began  to 
look  with  apprehension  toward  this  son's 
maturing  years.  And  always,  as  the  years 
passed,  evidence  was  forced  more  plainly 
upon  her  that  in  him  the  two  natures  he 
inherited  were  antagonistic  still ;  each  alter 
nately  uppermost ;  both  in  unceasing  war 
fare  ;  thus  endowing  him  with  a  double 
nature  which  might  in  time  lead  him  to  a 
double  life.  So  that  even  then  she  had 
begun  to  take  upon  herself  the  burden  of 
dreading  lest  she  should  not  only  be  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       131 

mother  of  his  life,  but  the  mother  of  his  trag 
edies.  She  went  over  this  again  and  again  : 
"  Am  I  to  be  the  mother  of  his  tragedies  ? " 

As  she  sat  this  young  summer  morning 
after  he  had  left  her  so  strangely,  all  at  once 
the  world  became  autumn  to  her  remem 
brance. 

An  autumn  morning :  the  rays  of  the  sun 
shining  upon  the  silvery  mists  swathing  the 
trees  outside,  upon  the  wet  and  many-colored 
leaves ;  a  little  frost  on  the  dark  grass  here 
and  there ;  the  first  fires  lighted  within ;  the 
carriage  already  waiting  at  the  door ;  the 
breakfast  hurriedly  choked  down — in  silence; 
the  mournful  noise  of  his  trunk  being  brought 
downstairs — his  first  trunk.  Then  the  going 
out  upon  the  veranda  and  the  saying  good-by 
to  him ;  and  then  —  the  carriage  disappear 
ing  in  the  silver  mists,  with  a  few  red  and 
yellow  leaves  whirled  high  from  the  wheels. 

That  was  the  last  of  the  first  Rowan, — 
youth  at  the  threshold  of  manhood.  Now 
off  for  college,  to  his  university  in  New  Eng 
land.  As  his  father  and  she  stood  side  by 
side  (he  being  too  frail  to  take  that  chill 


132        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

morning  ride  with  his  son)  he  waved  his 
hand  protectingly  after  him,  crying  out : 
"  He  is  a  good  boy."  And  she,  having 
some  wide  vision  of  other  mothers  of  the 
land  who  during  these  same  autumn  days 
were  bidding  God-speed  to  their  idols  — 
picked  youth  of  the  republic  —  she  with 
some  wide  vision  of  this  large  fact  stood  a 
proud  mother  among  them  all,  feeling  sure 
that  he  would  take  foremost  place  in  his 
college  for  good  honest  work  and  for  high 
character  and  gentle  manners  and  gallant 
bearing  —  with  not  a  dark  spot  in  him. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  first  session, 
after  she  had  learned  the  one  kind  of  letter 
he  always  wrote,  that  his  letters  changed. 
She  could  not  have  explained  how  they  were 
changed,  could  not  have  held  the  pages  up  to 
the  inspection  of  any  one  else  and  have  said, 
"  See !  it  is  here."  But  she  knew  it  was 
there,  and  it  stayed  there.  She  waited  for 
his  father  to  notice  it;  but  if  he  ever  noticed 
it,  he  never  told  her:  nor  did  she  ever  confide 
her  discovery  to  him. 

When  vacation  came,  it  brought  a  request 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 3  3 

from  Rowan  that  he  might  be  allowed  to 
spend  the  summer  with  college  friends  farther 
north  —  camping,  fishing,  hunting,  sailing, 
seeing  more  of  his  country.  His  father's 
consent  was  more  ready  than  her  own.  The 
second  session  passed  and  with  the  second 
vacation  the  request  was  renewed.  "  Why 
does  he  not  come  home  ?  Why  does  he  not 
wish  to  come  home  ?  "  she  said,  wandering 
restlessly  over  the  house  with  his  letter  in 
her  hands ;  going  up  to  his  bedroom  and 
sitting  down  in  the  silence  of  it  and  looking  at 
his  bed  —  which  seemed  so  strangely  white 
that  day  —  looking  at  all  the  preparations  she 
had  made  for  his  comfort.  "  Why  does  he 
not  come  ? " 

Near  the  close  of  the  third  session  he  came 
quickly  enough,  summoned  by  his  fatfici's 
short  fatal  illness. 

Some  time  passed  before  she  observed  any 
thing  in  him  but  natural  caanges  after  so 
long  an  absence  and  grief  over  his  great  loss. 
He  shut  himself  in  his  room  for  some  days, 
having  it  out  alone  with  himself,  a  young 
man's  first  solemn  accounting  to  a  father 


i  34       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

who  has  become  a  memory.  Gradually  there 
began  to  emerge  his  new  care  of  her,  and 
tenderness,  a  boy's  no  more.  And  he  stepped 
forward  easily  into  his  place  as  the  head  of 
affairs,  as  his  brother's  guardian.  But  as 
time  wore  on  and  she  grew  used  to  him  as 
so  much  older  in  mere  course  of  nature,  and 
as  graver  by  his  loss  and  his  fresh  responsi 
bilities,  she  made  allowances  for  all  these  and 
brushed  them  away  and  beheld  constantly 
beneath  them  that  other  change. 

Often  while  she  sat  near  him  when  they 
were  reading,  she  would  look  up  and  note 
that  unaware  a  shadow  had  stolen  out  on  his 
face.  She  studied  that  shadow.  And  one 
consolation  she  drew  :  that  whatsoever  the 
cause,  it  was  nothing  by  which  he  felt  dis 
honored.  At  such  moments  her  love  broke 
over  him  with  intolerable  longings.  She 
remembered  things  that  her  mother  had  told 
her  about  her  father;  she  recalled  the  lives 
of  her  brothers,  his  uncles.  She  yearned  to 
say  :  "  What  is  it,  Rowan  ?  You  can  tell  me 
anything,  anything.  I  know  so  much  more 
than  you  believe." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        135 

But  some  restraint  dissuaded  her  from 
bridging  that  reserve.  She  may  have  had 
the  feeling  that  she  spared  him  a  good  deal 
by  her  not  knowing. 

For  more  than  a  year  after  his  return  he 
had  kept  aloof  from  society  —  going  into 
town  only  when  business  demanded,  and  ac 
cepting  no  invitations  to  the  gayeties  of  the 
neighborhood.  He  liked  rather  to  have  his 
friends  come  out  to  stay  with  him  :  sometimes 
he  was  off  with  them  for  days  during  the  fish 
ing  and  hunting  seasons.  Care  of  the  farm  and 
its  stock  occupied  a  good  deal  of  his  leisure, 
and  there  were  times  when  he  worked  hard 
in  the  fields  —  she  thought  so  unnecessarily. 
Incessant  activity  of  some  kind  had  become 
his  craving  —  the  only  relief. 

She  became  uneasy,  she  disapproved.  For 
a  while  she  allowed  things  to  have  their  way, 
but  later  she  interfered  —  though  as  always 
with  her  silent  strength  and  irresistible  gen 
tleness.  Making  no  comment  upon  his 
changed  habits  and  altered  tastes,  giving  no 
sign  of  her  own  purposes,  she  began  the 
second  year  of  his  home-coming  to  accept 


136        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

invitations  for  herself  and  formally  reentered 
her  social  world ;  reassumed  her  own  leader 
ship  there ;  demanded  him  as  her  escort ; 
often  filled  the  house  with  young  guests  ; 
made  it  for  his  generation  what  the  home  of 
her  girlhood  had  been  to  her  —  in  all  sacri 
ficing  for  him  the  gravity  and  love  of  seclu 
sion  which  had  settled  over  her  during  the 
solemn  years,  years  which  she  knew  to  be 
parts  of  a  still  more  solemn  future. 

She  succeeded.  She  saw  him  again  more 
nearly  what  he  had  been  before  the  college 
days  —  more  nearly  developing  that  type  of 
life  which  belonged  to  him  and  to  his  position. 

Finally  she  saw  him  in  love  as  she  wished  ; 
and  at  this  point  she  gradually  withdrew  from 
society  again,  feeling  that  he  needed  her  no 
more. 


VI 


THE  noise  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  drive 
way  of  the  lawn  brought  the  reflections  of 
Mrs.  Meredith  to  an  abrupt  close.  The 
sound  was  extremely  unpleasant  to  her ;  she 
did  not  feel  in  a  mood  to  entertain  callers 
this  morning.  Rising  with  regret,  she  looked 
out.  The  brougham  of  Mrs.  Conyers,  flash 
ing  in  the  sun,  was  being  driven  toward  the 
house  —  was  being  driven  rapidly,  as  though 
speed  meant  an  urgency. 

If  Mrs.  Meredith  desired  no  visitor  at  all, 
she  particularly  disliked  the  appearance  of 
this  one.  Rowan's  words  to  her  were  full 
of  meaning  that  she  did  not  understand ; 
but  they  rendered  it  clear  at  least  that  his 
love  affair  had  been  interrupted,  if  not  wholly 
ended.  She  could  not  believe  this  due  to 
any  fault  of  his ;  and  friendly  relations  with 
the  Conyers  family  were  for  her  instantly  at 
an  end  with  any  wrong  done  him. 

She  summoned  a  maid  and  instructed  her 
137 


138       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

regarding  the  room  in  which  the  visitor  was 
to  be  received  (not  in  the  parlors  ;  they  were 
too  full  of  solemn  memories  this  morning). 
Then  she  passed  down  the  long  hall  to  her 
bedchamber. 

The  intimacy  between  these  ladies  was 
susceptible  of  exact  analysis  ;  every  element 
comprising  it  could  have  been  valued  as 
upon  a  quantitative  scale.  It  did  not  involve 
any  of  those  incalculable  forces  which  consti 
tute  friendship  —  a  noble  mystery  remaining 
forever  beyond  unravelling. 

They  found  the  first  basis  of  their  intimacy 
in  a  common  wish  for  the  union  of  their  off 
springs.  This  subject  had  never  been  men 
tioned  between  them.  Mrs.  Conyers  would 
have  discussed  it  had  she  dared ;  but  she 
knew  at  least  the  attitude  of  the  other.  Fur 
thermore,  Mrs.  Meredith  brought  to  this 
association  a  beautiful  weakness  :  she  was 
endowed  with  all  but  preternatural  insight 
into  what  is  fine  in  human  nature,  but  had 
slight  power  of  discovering  what  is  base ; 
she  seemed  endowed  with  far-sightedness  in 
high,  clear,  luminous  atmospheres,  but  was 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       139 

short-sighted  in  moral  twilights.  She  was, 
therefore,  no  judge  of  the  character  of  her 
intimate.  As  for  that  lady's  reputation,  this 
was  well  known  to  her ;  but  she  screened 
herself  against  this  reputation  behind  what 
she  believed  to  be  her  own  personal  dis 
covery  of  unsuspected  virtues  in  the  mis 
judged.  She  probably  experienced  as  much 
pride  in  publicly  declaring  the  misjudged  a 
better  woman  than  she  was  reputed,  as  that 
lady  would  have  felt  in  secretly  declaring  her 
to  be  a  worse  one. 

On  the  part  of  Mrs.  Conyers,  the  motives 
which  she  brought  to  the  association  pre 
sented  nothing  that  must  be  captured  and 
brought  down  from  the  heights ;  she  was 
usually  to  be  explained  by  mining  rather 
than  mounting.  Whatever  else  she  might 
not  have  been,  she  was  always  ore ;  never 
rainbows. 

Throughout  bird  and  animal  and  insect 
life  there  runs  what  is  recognized  as  the  law 
of  protective  assimilation.  It  represents  the 
necessity  under  which  a  creature  lives  to  pre 
tend  to  be  something  else  as  a  condition  of 


140       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

continuing  to  be  itself.  The  rose-colored 
flamingo,  curving  its  long  neck  in  volutions 
that  suggest  the  petals  of  a  corolla,  burying 
its  head  under  its  wing  and  lifting  one  leg 
out  of  sight,  becomes  a  rank,  marvellous 
flower,  blooming  on  too  slight  a  stalk  in  its 
marshes.  An  insect  turns  itself  into  one  of 
the  dried  twigs  of  a  dead  stick.  On  the 
margin  of  a  shadowed  pool  the  frog  is  hued 
like  moss  —  greenness  beside  greenness. 
Mrs.  Conyers  availed  herself  of  a  kind  of 
protective  assimilation  when  she  exposed 
herself  to  the  environment  of  Mrs.  Mere 
dith,  adopting  devices  by  which  she  would 
be  taken  for  any  object  in  nature  but  herself. 
Two  familiar  devices  were  applied  to  her 
habiliments  and  her  conversations.  Mrs. 
Meredith  always  dressed  well  to  the  natural 
limit  of  her  bountiful  years ;  Mrs.  Conyers 
usually  dressed  more  than  well  and  more 
than  a  generation  behind  hers.  On  occa 
sions  when  she  visited  Rowan's  unconcealed 
mother,  she  allowed  time  to  make  regarding 
herself  almost  an  honest  declaration.  Ordi 
narily  she  was  a  rose  nearly  ready  to  drop, 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      141 

which  is  bound  with  a  thread  of  its  own 
color  to  look  as  much  as  possible  like  a  bud 
that  is  nearly  ready  to  open. 

Her  conversations  were  even  more  assid 
uously  tinged  and  fashioned  by  the  needs  of 
accommodation.  Sometimes  she  sat  in  Mrs. 
Meredith's  parlors  as  a  soul  sick  of  the 
world's  vanities,  an  urban  spirit  that  hun 
gered  for  country  righteousness.  During  a 
walk  one  day  through  the  gardens  she  paused 
under  the  boughs  of  a  weeping  willow  and 
recited,  "  Cromwell,  I  charge  thee  fling  away 
ambition  — "  She  uniformly  imparted  to 
Mrs.  Meredith  the  assurance  that  with  her 
alone  she  could  lay  aside  all  disguises. 

This  morning  she  alighted  from  her  car 
riage  at  the  end  of  the  pavement  behind 
some  tall  evergreens.  As  she  walked  toward 
the  house,  though  absorbed  with  a  serious 
purpose,  she  continued  to  be  as  observant 
of  everything  as  usual.  Had  an  eye  been 
observant  of  her,  it  would  have  been  noticed 
that  Mrs.  Conyers  in  all  her  self-conceal 
ment  did  not  conceal  one  thing  —  her  walk. 
This  one  element  of  her  conduct  had  its 


142       The  Mettle  'of  the  Pasture 

curious  psychology.  She  had  never  been 
able  to  forget  that  certain  scandals  set  going 
many  years  before,  had  altered  the  course  of 
Mrs.  Meredith's  life  and  of  the  lives  of 
some  others.  After  a  lapse  of  so  long  a 
time  she  had  no  fear,  now  that  she  should 
be  discovered.  Nevertheless  it  was  impos 
sible  for  her  ever  to  approach  this  house 
without  "  coming  delicately."  She  "  came 
delicately "  in  the  same  sense  that  Agag, 
king  of  Amalek,  walked  when  he  was  on 
his  way  to  Saul,  who  was  about  to  hew  him 
to  pieces  before  the  Lord  in  Gilgal. 

She  approached  the  house  now,  observant 
of  everything  as  she  tripped.  Had  a  shutter 
been  hung  awry ;  if  a  window  shade  had 
been  drawn  too  low  or  a  pane  of  glass  had 
not  sparkled,  or  there  had  been  loose  paper 
on  the  ground  or  moulted  feathers  on  the 
bricks,  she  would  have  discovered  this  with 
the  victorious  satisfaction  of  finding  fault. 
But  orderliness  prevailed.  No ;  the  mat  at 
the  front  door  had  been  displaced  by  Rowan's 
foot  as  he  had  hurried  from  the  house.  (The 
impulse  was  irresistible :  she  adjusted  it  with 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       143 

her  toe  and  planted  herself  on  it  with  a  sense 
of  triumph.) 

As  she  took  out  her  own  and  Isabel's 
cards,  she  turned  and  looked  out  across 
the  old  estate.  This  was  the  home  she  had 
designed  for  Isabel :  the  land,  the  house,  the 
silver,  the  glass,  the  memories,  the  distinc 
tion —  they  must  all  be  Isabel's. 

Some  time  passed  before  Mrs.  Meredith 
appeared.  Always  a  woman  of  dignity  and 
reserve,  she  had  never  before  in  her  life 
perhaps  worn  a  demeanor  so  dignified  and 
reserved.  Her  nature  called  for  peace ;  but 
if  Rowan  had  been  wronged,  then  there  was 
no  peace  —  and  a  sacred  war  is  a  cruel  one. 
The  instant  that  the  two  ladies  confronted 
each  other,  each  realized  that  each  concealed 
something  from  the  other.  This  discovery 
instantly  made  Mrs.  Meredith  cooler  still ; 
it  rendered  Mrs.  Conyers  more  cordial. 

"  Isabel    regretted    that    she     could     not 


come/' 


"  I  am  sorry."     The  tone  called  for  the 
dismissal  of  the  subject. 

"  This  is  scarcely  a  visit  to   you,"   Mrs. 


144       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Conyers  went  on ;  "I  have  been  paying  one 
of  my  usual  pastoral  calls :  I  have  been  to 
Ambrose  Webb's  to  see  if  my  cows  are 
ready  to  return  to  town.  Strawberries  are 
ripe  and  strawberries  call  for  more  cream, 
and  more  cream  calls  for  more  calves,  and 
more  calves  call  for  —  well,  we  have  all 
heard  them  !  I  do  not  understand  how  a 
man  who  looks  like  Ambrose  can  so  stimu 
late  cattle.  Of  course  my  cows  are  not  as 
fine  and  fat  as  Rowan's  —  that  is  not  to 
be  expected.  The  country  is  looking  very 
beautiful.  I  never  come  for  a  drive  with 
out  regretting  that  I  live  in  town."  (She 
would  have  found  the  country  intolerable 
for  the  same  reason  that  causes  criminals  to 
flock  to  cities.) 

Constraint  deepened  as  the  visit  was  pro 
longed.  Mrs.  Conyers  begged  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  for  a  recipe  that  she  knew  to  be  bad ; 
and  when  Mrs.  Meredith  had  left  the  room 
for  it,  she  rose  and  looked  eagerly  out  of  the 
windows  for  any  sign  of  Rowan.  When 
Mrs.  Meredith  returned,  for  the  same  rea 
son  she  asked  to  be  taken  into  the  garden, 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      145 

wnich  was  in  its  splendor  of  bloom.  Mrs. 
Meredith  culled  for  her  a  few  of  the  most 
resplendent  blossoms  —  she  could  not  have 
offered  to  any  one  anything  less.  Mrs.  Con- 
yers  was  careful  not  to  pin  any  one  of  these 
on ;  she  had  discovered  that  she  possessed 
a  peculiarity  known  to  some  florists  and  con 
cealed  by  those  women  who  suffer  from  it  — 
that  flowers  soon  wilt  when  worn  by  them. 

Meanwhile  as  they  walked  she  talked  of 
flowers,  of  housekeeping ;  she  discussed 
Marguerite's  coming  ball  and  Dent's  brill 
iant  graduation.  She  enlarged  upon  this, 
praising  Dent  to  the  disparagement  of  her 
own  grandson  Victor,  now  in  retreat  from 
college  on  account  of  an  injury  received  as 
centre-rush  in  his  football  team.  Victor,  she 
protested,  was  above  education  ;  his  college 
was  a  kind  of  dormitory  to  athletics. 

When  we  are  most  earnest  ourselves,  we 
are  surest  to  feel  the  lack  of  earnestness  in 
others ;  sincerity  stirred  to  the  depths  will 
tolerate  nothing  less.  It  thus  becomes  a 
new  test  of  a  companion.  So  a  weak  solution 
may  not  reveal  a  poison  when  a  strong  one 


146       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

will.  Mrs.  Meredith  felt  this  morning  as 
never  before  the  real  nature  of  the  woman 
over  whom  for  years  she  had  tried  to  throw 
a  concealing  charity  ;  and  Mrs.  Conyers  saw 
as  never  before  in  what  an  impossible  soil 
she  had  tried  to  plant  poison  oak  and  call  it 
castle  ivy. 

The  ladies  parted  with  coldness. 

When  she  was  once  more  seated  in  her 
carriage,  Mrs.  Conyers  thrust  her  head 
through  the  window  and  told  the  coachman 
to  drive  slowly.  She  tossed  the  recipe  into 
a  pine  tree  and  took  in  her  head.  Then  she 
caught  hold  of  a  brown  silk  cord  attached  to 
a  little  brown  silk  curtain  in  the  front  of  the 
brougham  opposite  her  face.  It  sprang  aside, 
revealing  a  little  toilette  mirror.  On  the 
cushion  beside  her  lay  something  under  a 
spread  newspaper.  She  quickly  drew  off  her 
sombre  visiting  gloves  ;  and  lifting  the  news 
paper,  revealed  under  it  a  fresh  pair  of  gloves, 
pearl-colored.  She  worked  her  tinted  hands 
nimbly  into  these.  Then  she  took  out  a 
rose-colored  scarf  or  shawl  as  light  as  a 
summer  cloud.  This  she  threw  round  her 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       147 

shoulders ;  it  added  no  warmth,  it  added 
color,  meaning.  There  were  a  few  other 
youthward  changes  and  additions ;  and  then 
the  brown  silk  curtain  closed  over  the  mirror. 

Another  woman  leaned  back  in  a  corner 
of  the  brougham.  By  a  trick  of  the  face  she 
had  juggled  away  a  generation  of  her  years. 
The  hands  were  moved  backward  on  the 
horologe  of  mortality  as  we  move  backward 
the  pointers  on  the  dial  of  a  clock :  her  face 
ticked  at  the  hour  of  two  in  the  afternoon 
of  life  instead  of  half-past  five. 

There  was  still  time  enough  left  to  be 
malicious. 


VII 

ONE  morning  about  a  week  later  she  en 
tered  her  carriage  and  was  driven  rapidly 
away.  A  soft-faced,  middle-aged  woman 
with  gray  ringlets  and  nervous  eyes  stepped 
timorously  upon  the  veranda  and  watched 
her  departure  with  an  expression  of  relief — 
Miss  Harriet  Crane,  the  unredeemed  daugh 
ter  of  the  household. 

She  had  been  the  only  fruit  of  her  mother's 
first  marriage  and  she  still  remained  attached 
to  the  parental  stem  despite  the  most  vigor 
ous  wavings  and  shakings  of  that  stem  to 
shed  its  own  product.  Nearly  fifty  years  of 
wintry  neglect  and  summer  scorching  had 
not  availed  to  disjoin  Harriet  from  organic 
dependence  upon  her  mother.  And  of  all 
conceivable  failings  in  a  child  of  hers  that 
mother  could  have  found  none  so  hard  to 
forgive  as  the  failure  to  attract  a  man  in  a 
world  full  of  men  nearly  all  bent  upon  being 
attracted. 

It  was  by  no  choice  of  Harriet's  that  she 
148 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       149 

was  born  of  a  woman  who  valued  children 
as  a  kind  of  social  collateral,  high-class  in 
vestments  to  mature  after  long  periods  with 
at  least  reasonable  profits  for  the  original 
investors.  Nor  was  it  by  any  volition  of 
hers  that  she  had  commended  herself  to  her 
mother  in  the  beginning  by  being  a  beautiful 
and  healthful  child :  initial  pledge  that  she 
could  be  relied  upon  to  turn  out  lucrative  in 
the  end.  The  parent  herself  was  secretly 
astounded  that  she  had  given  birth  to  a  child 
of  so  seraphic  a  disposition. 

Trouble  and  disappointment  began  with 
education,  for  education  is  long  stout  resist 
ance.  You  cannot  polish  highly  a  stone  that 
is  not  hard  enough  to  resist  being  highly 
polished.  Harriet's  soft  nature  gave  way 
before  the  advance  of  the  serried  phalanxes 
of  knowledge :  learning  passed  her  by ;  and 
she  like  the  many  cc  passed  through  school." 

By  this  time  her  mother  had  grown  alarmed 
and  she  brought  Harriet  out  prematurely, 
that  she  might  be  wedded  before,  so  to  speak, 
she  was  discovered.  Meantime  Mrs.  Crane 
herself  had  married  a  second  and  a  third 


150       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

time,  with  daughters  by  the  last  husband 
who  were  little  younger  than  her  eldest ; 
and  she  laughingly  protested  that  nothing  is 
more  confusing  to  a  woman  than  to  have  in 
the  house  children  by  two  husbands.  Hence 
further  reason  for  desiring  immediate  nup 
tials  :  she  could  remove  from  the  parlors  the 
trace  of  bi-marital  collaboration. 

At  first  only  the  most  brilliant  matches 
were  planned  for  Harriet ;  these  one  by  one 
unaccountably  came  to  naught.  Later  the 
mother  began  to  fall  back  upon  those  young 
men  who  should  be  glad  to  embrace  such  an 
opportunity ;  but  these  less  desirable  young 
men  failed  to  take  that  peculiar  view  of  their 
destinies.  In  the  meanwhile  the  Misses 
Conyers  had  come  on  as  debutantes  and 
were  soon  bespoken.  At  the  marriage  of 
the  youngest,  Harriet's  mother  had  her  act 
as  first  bridesmaid  and  dressed  her,  already 
fading,  as  though  she  were  the  very  spirit  of 
April. 

The  other  sisters  were  long  since  gone, 
scattered  north  and  south  with  half-grown 
families ;  and  the  big  house  was  almost 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 5 1 

empty  save  when  they  came  in  troops  to 
visit  it. 

Harriet's  downward  career  as  an  article  of 
human  merchandise  had  passed  through  what 
are  perhaps  not  wholly  unrecognizable  stages. 
At  first  she  had  been  displayed  near  the  en 
trance  for  immediate  purchase  by  the  unwary. 
Then  she  had  been  marked  down  as  some 
thing  that  might  be  secured  at  a  reduced 
price  ;  but  intending  buyers  preferred  to  pay 
more.  By  and  by  even  this  label  was  taken 
off  and  she  became  a  remnant  of  stock  for 
which  there  was  no  convenient  space  —  being 
moved  from  shelf  to  shelf,  always  a  little 
more  shop-worn,  a  little  more  out  of  style. 
What  was  really  needed  was  an  auction. 

Mrs.  Conyers  did  not  take  much  to  heart 
the  teachings  of  her  Bible  ;  but  it  had  at 
least  defined  for  her  one  point  of  view :  all 
creatures  worth  saving  had  been  saved  in 
pairs. 

Bitter  as  were  those  years  for  Harriet, 
others  more  humiliating  followed.  The 
maternal  attempts  having  been  discontinued, 
she,  desperate,  with  slights  and  insults,  had 


1 5  2       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

put  forth  some  efforts  of  her  own.  But  it 
was  as  though  one  had  been  placed  in  a 
boat  without  oars  and  told  to  row  for  life : 
the  little  boat  under  the  influence  of  cosmic 
tides  had  merely  drifted  into  shallows  and 
now  lay  there  —  forgotten. 

This  morning  as  she  sat  idly  rocking  on 
the  veranda,  she  felt  that  negative  happiness 
which  consists  in  the  disappearance  of  a 
positively  disagreeable  thing.  Then  she  be 
gan  to  study  how  she  should  spend  the 
forenoon  most  agreeably.  Isabel  was  up 
stairs  ;  she  would  have  been  perfectly  satis 
fied  to  talk  with  her ;  but  for  several 
mornings  Isabel  had  shown  unmistakable 
preference  to  be  let  alone ;  and  in  the 
school  of  life  Harriet  had  attained  the 
highest  proficiency  in  one  branch  of  knowl 
edge  at  least  —  never  to  get  in  anybody's 
way.  Victor  Fielding  lay  under  the  trees 
with  a  pipe  and  a  book,  but  she  never 
ventured  near  him. 

So  Harriet  bethought  herself  of  a  certain 
friend  of  hers  on  the  other  side  of  town, 
Miss  Anna  Hardage,  who  lived  with  her 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       153 

brother,  Professor  Hardage  —  two  people  to 
trust. 

She  put  on  her  hat  which  unfortunately 
she  had  chosen  to  trim  herself,  tied  a  white 
veil  across  the  upper  part  of  her  face  and 
got  out  her  second-best  pair  of  gloves  :  Har 
riet  kept  her  best  gloves  for  her  enemies. 
In  the  front  yard  she  pulled  a  handful  of 
white  lilacs  (there  was  some  defect  here  or 
she  would  never  have  carried  white  lilacs 
in  soiled  white  gloves) ;  and  passed  out  of 
the  gate.  Her  eyes  were  lighted  up  with 
anticipations,  but  ill  must  have  overtaken 
her  in  transit ;  for  when  she  was  seated  with 
Miss  Anna  in  a  little  side  porch  looking  out 
on  the  little  green  yard,  they  were  dimmed 
with  tears. 

"  The  same  old  story,"  she  complained 
vehemently.  "  The  same  ridicule  that  has 
been  dinned  into  my  ears  since  I  was  a 
child." 

"  Ah,  now,  somebody  has  been  teasing  her 
about  being  an  old  maid,"  said  Miss  Anna 
to  herself,  recognizing  the  signs. 

"  This  world  is  a  very  unprincipled  place 


154        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

to  live  in,"  continued  Harriet,  her  rage 
curdling  into  philosophy. 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  the  best  there  is  just  yet," 
maintained  Miss  Anna,  stoutly.  "  By  and 
by  we  may  all  be  able  to  do  better  —  those 
of  us  who  get  the  chance." 

"What  shall  I  care  then?"  said  Harriet, 
scouting  eternity  as  a  palliative  of  contem 
porary  woes. 

"  Wait  !  you  are  tired  and  you  have  lost 
your  temper  from  thirst :  children  always  do. 
I'll  bring  something  to  cure  you,  fresh  from 
the  country,  fresh  from  Ambrose  Webb's 
farm.  Besides,  you  have  a  dark  shade  of 
the  blues,  my  dear ;  and  this  remedy  is 
capital  for  the  blues.  You  have  but  to  sip 
a  glass  slowly  —  and  where  are  they  ?  "  And 
she  hastened  into  the  house. 

She  returned  with  two  glasses  of  cool 
buttermilk. 

The  words  and  the  deed  were  character 
istic  of  one  of  the  most  wholesome  women 
that  ever  helped  to  straighten  out  a  crooked 
and  to  cool  a  feverish  world.  Miss  Anna's 
very  appearance  allayed  irritation  and  became 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 5  5 

a  provocation  to  good  health,  to  good  sense. 
Her  mission  in  life  seemed  not  so  much  to 
distribute  honey  as  to  sprinkle  salt,  to  render 
things  salubrious,  to  enable  them  to  keep 
their  tonic  naturalness.  Not  within  the 
range  of  womankind  could  so  marked  a  con 
trast  have  been  found  for  Harriet  as  in  this 
maiden  lady  of  her  own  age,  who  was  her 
most  patient  friend  and  who  supported  her 
clinging  nature  (which  still  could  not 
resist  the  attempt  to  bloom)  as  an  autumn 
cornstalk  supports  a  frost-nipped  morning- 
glory. 

If  words  of  love  had  ever  been  whispered 
into  Miss  Anna's  ear,  no  human  being  knew 
it  now :  but  perhaps  her  heart  also  had  its 
under  chamber  sealed  with  tears.  Women 
not  even  behind  her  back  jested  at  her 
spinsterhood ;  and  when  that  is  true,  a 
miracle  takes  place  indeed.  No  doubt  Miss 
Anna  was  a  miracle,  not  belonging  to  any 
country,  race,  or  age ;  being  one  of  those 
offerings  to  the  world  which  nature  now  and 
then  draws  from  the  deeps  of  womanhood : 
a  pure  gift  of  God. 


156       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

The  two  old  maids  drained  their  rectify 
ing  beverage  in  the  shady  porch.  Whether 
from  Miss  Anna's  faith  in  it  or  from  the 
simple  health-giving  of  her  presence,  Harriet 
passed  through  a  process  of  healing ;  and  as 
she  handed  back  the  empty  glass,  she  smiled 
gratefully  into  Miss  Anna's  sparkling  brown 
eyes.  Nature  had  been  merciful  to  her  in 
this,  that  she  was  as  easily  healed  as  wounded. 
She  now  returned  to  the  subject  which  had 
so  irritated  her,  as  we  rub  pleasantly  a  spot 
from  which  a  thorn  has  been  extracted. 

"  What  do  I  care  ? "  she  said,  straighten 
ing  her  hat  as  if  to  complete  her  recovery. 
"  But  if  there  is  one  thing  that  can  make 
me  angry,  Anna,  it  is  the  middle-aged,  able- 
bodied  unmarried  men  of  this  town.  They 
are  perfectly,  -perfectly  contemptible." 

"  Oh,  come  now  !  "  cried  Miss  Anna,  "  I 
am  too  old  to  talk  about  such  silly  things 
myself;  but  what  does  a  woman  care  whether 
she  is  married  or  not  if  she  has  had  offers  ? 
And  you  have  had  plenty  of  good  offers,  my 
dear." 

"  No,    1     haven't ! "    said    Harriet,    who 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       157 

would  tell  the  truth  about  this  rankling 
misfortune. 

"  Well,  then,  it  was  because  the  men  knew 
you  wouldn't  have  them." 

"No,  it  wasn't!"  said  Harriet,  "it  was 
because  they  knew  I  would." 

"  Nonsense ! "  cried  Miss  Anna,  impa 
tiently.  "You  mustn't  try  to  palm  off  so 
much  mock  modesty  on  me,  Harriet." 

"  Ah,  I  am  too  old  to  fib  about  it,  Anna ! 
I  leave  that  to  my  many  sisters  in  mis 
fortune." 

Harriet  looked  at  her  friend's  work  curi 
ously  :  she  was  darning  Professor  Hardage's 
socks. 

"  Why  do  you  do  that,  Anna  ?  Socks  are 
dirt  cheap.  You  might  as  well  go  out  into 
the  country  and  darn  sheep." 

"Ah,  you  have  never  had  a  brother  —  my 
brother !  so  you  cannot  understand.  I  can 
feel  his  heels  pressing  against  my  stitches 
when  he  is  walking  a  mile  away.  And  I 
know  whenever  his  fingers  touch  the  buttons 
I  have  put  back.  Besides,  don't  you  like  to 
see  people  make  bad  things  good,  and  things 


158        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

with  holes  in  them  whole  again  ?  Why,  that 
is  half  the  work  of  the  world,  Harriet!  It 
is  not  his  feet  that  make  these  holes,"  con 
tinued  Miss  Anna,  nicely,  "  it  is  his  shoes, 
his  big,  coarse  shoes.  And  his  clothes  wear 
out  so  soon.  He  has  a  tailor  who  misfits 
him  so  exactly  from  year  to  year  that  there 
is  never  the  slightest  deviation  in  the  botch. 
I  know  beforehand  exactly  where  all  the 
creases  will  begin.  So  I  darn  and  mend. 
The  idea  of  his  big,  soft,  strong  feet  making 
holes  in  anything !  but,  then,  you  have  never 
tucked  him  in  bed  at  night,  my  dear,  so  you 
know  nothing  about  his  feet." 

"  Not  I  !  "  said  Harriet,  embarrassed  but 
not  shocked. 

Miss  Anna  continued  fondly  in  a  lowered 
voice :  "  You  should  have  heard  him  the 
other  day  when  he  pulled  open  a  drawer : 
c  Why,  Anna,'  he  cried,  c  where  on  earth  did 
I  get  all  these  new  socks  ?  The  pair  I  left  in 
here  must  have  been  alive  :  they've  bred  like 
rabbits.'  —  c  Why,  you've  forgotten,'  I  said. 
c  It's  your  birthday ;  and  I  have  made  you 
over,  so  that  you  are  as  good  as  new  —  me!9 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       159 

"  I  never  have  to  be  reminded  of  my  birth 
day,"  remarked  Harriet,  reflectively.  "Anna, 
do  you  know  that  I  have  lived  about  one- 
eighth  of  the  time  since  Columbus  discovered 
America  :  doesn't  that  sound  awful !  " 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  look  it,"  said  Miss 
Anna,  artistically,  "  and  that's  the  main 
object." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  feel  it,"  retorted  Harriet, 
"and  that's  the  main  object  too.  I'm  as 
young  as  I  ever  was  when  I'm  away  from 
home ;  but  I  declare,  Anna,  there  are  times 
when  my  mother  can  make  me  feel  I'm  about 
the  oldest  thing  alive." 

"  Oh,  come  now !  you  mustn't  begin  to 
talk  that  way,  or  I'll  have  to  give  you  more 
of  the  antidote.  You  are  threatened  with  a 
relapse." 

"  No  more,"  ordered  Harriet  with  a  for 
bidding  hand,  "  and  I  repeat  what  I  said. 
Of  course  you  know  I  never  gossip,  Anna ; 
but  when  I  talk  to  you,  I  do  not  feel  as 
though  I  were  talking  to  anybody." 

"  Why,  of  course  not,"  said  Miss  Anna, 
trying  to  make  the  most  of  the  compliment, 


1 60        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  I  am  nobody  at  all,  just  a  mere  nonentity, 
Harriet." 

"Anna,"  said  Harriet,  after  a  pause  of 
unusual  length,  "  if  it  had  not  been  for  my 
mother,  I  should  have  been  married  long 
ago.  Thousands  of  worse-looking  women, 
and  of  actually  worse  women,  marry  every 
year  in  this  world  and  marry  reasonably  well. 
It  was  because  she  tried  to  marry  me  off: 
that  was  the  bottom  of  the  deviltry  —  the 
men  saw  through  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  they  did,"  admitted  Miss 
Anna,  affably,  looking  down  into  a  hole. 

"  Of  course  I  know  I  am  not  brilliant," 
conceded  Harriet,  "  but  then  I  am  never 
commonplace." 

"  I  should  like  to  catch  any  one  saying 
such  a  thing." 

"  Even  if  I  were,  commonplace  women 
always  make  the  best  wives  :  do  they  not?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  that  question  in  this 
porch,"  exclaimed  Miss  Anna  a  little  resent 
fully.  "  What  do  I  know  about  it !  " 

"  My  mother  thinks  I  am  a  weak  woman," 
continued  Harriet,  musingly.  "  If  my  day 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 6 1 

ever  comes,  she  will  know  that  I  am  strong, 
Anna,  strong" 

"Ah,  now,  you  must  forgive  your  mother/* 
cried  Miss  Anna,  having  reached  a  familiar 
turn  in  this  familiar  dialogue.  "  Whatever 
she  did,  she  did  for  the  best.  Certainly  it 
was  no  fault  of  yours.  But  you  could  get 
married  to-morrow  if  you  wished  and  you 
know  it,  Harriet."  (Miss  Anna  offered  up 
the  usual  little  prayer  to  be  forgiven.) 

The  balm  of  those  words  worked  through 
Harriet's  veins  like  a  poison  of  joy.  So 
long  as  a  single  human  being  expresses  faith 
in  us,  what  matters  an  unbelieving  world  ? 
Harriet  regularly  visited  Miss  Anna  to  hear 
these  maddening  syllables.  She  called  for 
them  as  for  the  refilling  of  a  prescription, 
which  she  preferred  to  get  fresh  every  time 
rather  than  take  home  once  for  all  and  use 
as  directed. 

Among  a  primitive  folk  who  seemed  to 
have  more  moral  troubles  than  any  other 
and  to  feel  greater  need  of  dismissing  them 
by  artificial  means,  there  grew  up  the  custom 


1 62       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  using  a  curious  expedient.  They  chose  a 
beast  of  the  field  and  upon  its  head  symboli 
cally  piled  all  the  moral  hard-headedness  of 
the  several  tribes ;  after  which  the  unoffend 
ing  brute  was  banished  to  the  wilderness  and 
the  guilty  multitude  felt  relieved.  However 
crude  that  ancient  method  of  transferring  men 
tal  and  moral  burdens,  it  had  at  least  this  re 
deeming  feature :  the  early  Hebrews  heaped 
their  sins  upon  a  creature  which  they  did 
not  care  for  and  sent  it  away.  In  modern 
times  we  pile  our  burdens  upon  our  dearest 
fellow-creatures  and  keep  them  permanently 
near  us  for  further  use.  What  human  being 
but  has  some  other  upon  whom  he  nightly 
hangs  his  troubles  as  he  hangs  his  different 
garments  upon  hooks  and  nails  in  the  walls 
around  him  P  Have  we  ever  suspected  that 
when  once  the  habit  of  transferring  our 
troubles  has  become  pleasant  to  us,  we 
thereafter  hunt  for  troubles  in  order  that 
we  may  have  them  to  transfer,  that  we  mag 
nify  the  little  ones  in  order  to  win  the  credit 
of  having  large  ones,  and  that  we  are  wonder 
fully  refreshed  by  making  other  people  de- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      163 

spondent  for  our  sakes.  Mercifully  those 
upon  whom  the  burdens  are  hung  often 
become  the  better  for  their  loads  ;  they  may 
not  live  so  long,  but  they  are  more  useful. 
Thus  in  turn  the  weak  develop  the  strong. 

For  years  Miss  Anna  had  sacrificially  de 
meaned  herself  in  the  service  of  Harriet,  who 
would  now  have  felt  herself  a  recreant  friend 
unless  she  had  promptly  detailed  every  an 
noyance  of  her  life.  She  would  go  home, 
having  left  behind  her  the  infinite  little 
swarm  of  stinging  things  —  having  trans 
ferred  them  to  the  head  of  Miss  Anna, 
around  which  they  buzzed  until  they  died. 

There  was  this  further  peculiarity  in 
Harriet's  visits :  that  the  most  important 
moments  were  the  last ;  just  as  a  doctor, 
after  he  has  listened  to  the  old  story  of  his 
patient's  symptoms,  and  has  prescribed  and 
bandaged  and  patted  and  soothed,  and  has 
reached  the  door,  turns,  and  noting  a  light 
in  the  patient's  eye  hears  him  make  a 
remark  which  shows  that  all  the  time  he 
has  really  been  thinking  about  something 
else. 


1 64        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Harriet  now  showed  what  was  at  the 
bottom  of  her  own  mind  this  morning : 

"  What  I  came  to  tell  you  about,  Anna, 
is  that  for  a  week  life  at  home  has  been 
unendurable.  There  is  some  trouble,  some 
terrible  trouble ;  and  no  matter  what  goes 
wrong,  my  mother  always  holds  me  respon 
sible.  Positively  there  are  times  when  I 
wonder  whether  I,  without  my  knowing  it, 
may  not  be  the  Origin  of  Evil." 

Miss  Anna  made  no  comment,  having  closed 
the  personal  subject,  and  Harriet  continued : 

"  It  has  scarcely  been  possible  for  me  to 
stay  in  the  house.  Fortunately  mother  has 
been  there  very  little  herself.  She  goes  and 
goes  and  drives  and  drives.  Strange  things 
have  been  happening.  You  know  that 
Judge  Morris  has  not  missed  coming  on 
Sunday  evening  for  years.  Last  night 
mother  sat  on  the  veranda  waiting  for  him 
and  he  did  not  come.  I  know,  for  I 
watched.  What  have  I  to  do  but  watch 
other  people's  affairs?  —  I  have  none  of  my 
own.  I  believe  the  trouble  is  all  between 
Isabel  and  Rowan." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        165 

Miss  Anna  dropped  her  work  and  looked 
at  Harriet  with  s.idden  gravity. 

"  I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  real  situa 
tion  because  it  is  very  dramatic ;  and  you 
know,  Anna,  I  am  not  dramatic  :  I  am  merely 
historical :  I  tell  my  little  tales.  But  at  any 
rate  Rowan  has  not  been  at  the  house  for  a 
week.  He  called  last  Sunday  afternoon  and 
Isabel  refused  to  see  him.  I  know ;  because 
what  have  I  to  do  but  to  interest  myself  in 
people  who  have  affairs  of  interest  ?  Then 
Isabel  had  his  picture  in  her  room  :  it  has 
been  taken  down.  She  had  some  of  his 
books  :  they  are  gone.  The  house  has 
virtually  been  closed  to  company.  Isabel 
has  excused  herself  to  callers.  Mother  was 
to  give  a  tea ;  the  invitations  were  cancelled. 
At  table  Isabel  and  mother  barely  speak; 
but  when  I  am  not  near,  they  talk  a  great 
deal  to  each  other.  And  Isabel  walks  and 
walks  and  walks  —  in  the  garden,  in  her 
rooms.  I  have  waked  up  two  or  three 
times  at  night  and  have  seen  her  sitting  at 
her  window.  She  has  always  been  very  kind 
to  me,  Anna,"  Harriet's  voice  faltered,  "  she 


1 66        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

and  you  :  and  I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  so 
unhappy.  You  would  ne\  jr  believe  that  a 
few  days  would  make  such  a  change  in  her. 
The  other  morning  I  went  up  to  her  room 
with  a  little  bunch  of  violets  which  I  had 
gathered  for  her  myself.  When  she  opened 
the  door,  I  saw  that  she  was  packing  her 
trunks.  And  the  dress  she  had  ordered  for 
Marguerite's  ball  was  lying  on  the  bed  ready 
to  be  put  in.  As  I  gave  her  the  flowers  she 
stood  looking  at  them  a  long  time ;  then  she 
kissed  me  without  a  word  and  quickly  closed 
the  door." 

When  Harriet  had  gone,  Miss  Anna  sat 
awhile  in  her  porch  with  a  troubled  face. 
Then  she  went  softly  into  the  library,  the 
windows  of  which  opened  out  upon  the 
porch.  Professor  Hardage  was  standing  on 
a  short  step-ladder  before  a  bookcase,  having 
just  completed  the  arrangement  of  the  top 
shelf. 

"Are  you  never  going  to  get  down?" 
she  asked,  looking  up  at  him  fondly. 

He   closed   the   book  with  a   snap  and  a 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       167 

sigh  and  descended.  Her  anxious  look  re 
called  his  attention. 

"  Did  I  not  hear  Harriet  harrowing  you  up 
again  with  her  troubles  ?  "  he  asked.  £C  You 
poor,  kind  soul  that  try  to  bear  everybody's  !  " 

"  Never  mind  about  what  I  bear  !  What 
can  you  bear  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  It  is  an  outrage,  Anna  !  What  right  has 
she  to  make  herself  happier  by  making  you 
miserable,  lengthening  her  life  by  shortening 
yours  ?  For  these  worries  always  clip  the 
thread  of  life  at  the  end :  that  is  where  all 
the  small  debts  are  collected  as  one." 

"  Now  you  must  not  be  down  on  Harriet ! 
It  makes  her  happier;  and  as  to  the  end  of 
my  life,  I  shall  be  there  to  attend  to  that." 

"  Suppose  I  moved  away  with  you  to  some 
other  college  entirely  out  of  her  reach  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  suppose  it  because  you  will 
never  do  it.  If  you  did,  Harriet  would 
simply  find  somebody  else  to  confide  in  : 
she  must  tell  everything  to  somebody.  But 
if  she  told  any  one  else,  a  good  many  of 
these  stories  would  be  all  over  town.  She 
tells  me  and  they  get  no  further." 


1 68        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  What  right  have  you  to  listen  to  scandal 
in  order  to  suppress  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  even  listen  always  :  I  merely 
stop  the  stream  at  its  source." 

"  I  object  to  your  offering  your  mind  as 
the  banks  to  such  a  stream.  Still  I'm  glad 
that  I  live  near  the  banks,"  and  he  kissed 
his  hand  to  her. 

"  When  one  woman  tells  another  any 
thing  and  the  other  woman  does  not  tell, 
remember  it  is  not  scandal — it  is  confidence." 

"  Then  there  is  no  such  thing  as  confi 
dence,"  he  replied,  laughing. 

He  turned  toward  his  shelves. 

"  Now  do  rest,"  she  pleaded,  "  you  look 
worn  out." 

She  had  a  secret  notion  that  books  instead 
of  putting  life  into  people  took  it  out  of 
them.  At  best  they  performed  the  function 
of  grindstones :  they  made  you  sharper,  but 
they  made  you  thinner  —  gave  you  more 
edge  and  left  you  less  substance. 

"  I  wish  every  one  of  those  books  had  a 
lock  and  I  had  the  bunch  of  keys." 

"  Each  has  a  lock  and  key ;  but  the  key 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       169 

cannot  be  put  into  your  pocket,  Anna,  my 
dear;  it  is  the  unlocking  mind.  And  you 
are  not  to  speak  of  books  as  a  collection  of 
locks  and  keys ;  they  make  up  the  living 
tree  of  knowledge,  though  of  course  there 
is  very  little  of  the  tree  in  this  particular 
bookcase." 

"  I  don't  see  any  of  it/'  she  remarked 
with  wholesome  literalness. 

"  Well,  here  at  the  bottom  are  lexicons  — 
think  of  them  as  roots  and  soil.  Above 
them  lie  maps  and  atlases :  consider  them 
the  surface.  Then  all  books  are  history  of 
course.  But  here  is  a  great  central  trunk 
rising  out  of  the  surface  which  is  called  His 
tory  in  especial.  On  each  side  of  that,  run 
ning  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  are  main 
branches.  Here  for  instance  is  the  large 
limb  of  Philosophy  —  a  very  weighty  limb  in  - 
deed.  Here  is  the  branch  of  Criticism.  Here 
is  a  bough  consisting  principally  of  leaves  on 
which  live  unnamed  venomous  little  insects 
that  poison  them  and  die  on  them :  their 
appointed  place  in  creation." 

"  And  so   there  is  no  positive  fruit  any- 


1 70       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

where,"  she  insisted  with  her  practical  taste 
for  the  substantial. 

"It  is  all  food,  Anna,  edible  and  nourish 
ing  to  different  mouths  and  stomachs.  Some 
very  great  men  have  lived  on  the  roots  of 
knowledge,  the  simplest  roots.  And  here 
is  poetry  for  dates  and  wild  honey ;  and 
novels  for  cocoanuts  and  mushrooms.  And 
here  is  Religion  :  that  is  for  manna." 

"  What  is  at  the  very  top  ?  " 

His  eyes  rested  upon  the  highest  row  of 
books. 

"  These  are  some  of  the  loftiest  growths, 
new  buds  of  the  mind  opening  toward  the 
unknown.  Each  in  its  way  shows  the  best 
that  man,  the  earth-animal,  has  been  able  to 
accomplish.  Here  is  a  little  volume  for 
instance  which  tells  what  he  ought  to  be  — 
and  never  is.  This  small  volume  deals  with 
the  noblest  ideals  of  the  greatest  civiliza 
tions.  Here  is  what  one  of  the  finest  of  the 
world's  teachers  had  to  say  about  justice. 
Aspiration  is  at  that  end.  This  little  book 
is  on  the  sad  loveliness  of  Greek  girls ;  and 
the  volume  beside  it  is  about  the  brief 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       171 

human  chaplets  that  Horace  and  some  other 
Romans  wore  —  and  then  trod  on.  Thus 
the  long  story  of  light  and  shadow  girdles 
the  globe.  If  you  were  nothing  but  a  spirit, 
Anna,  and  could  float  in  here  some  night, 
perhaps  you  would  see  a  mysterious  radiance 
streaming  upward  from  this  shelf  of  books  like 
the  northern  lights  from  behind  the  world  — 
starting  no  one  knows  where,  sweeping  away 
we  know  not  whither  —  search-light  of  the 
mortal,  turned  on  dark  eternity." 

She  stood  a  little  behind  him  and  watched 
him  in  silence,  hiding  her  tenderness. 

"  If  I  were  a  book,"  she  said  thought 
lessly,  "  where  should  I  be  ?  " 

He  drew  the  fingers  of  one  hand  linger- 
ingly  across  the  New  Testament. 

"  Ah,  now  don't  do  that,"  she  cried,  "  or 
you  shall  have  no  dinner.  Here,  turn 
round !  look  at  the  dust !  look  at  this 
cravat  on  one  end !  look  at  these  hands ! 
March  upstairs." 

He  laid  his  head  over  against  hers. 

"  Stand  up  !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  ran  out 
of  the  room. 


172        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Some  minutes  later  she  came  back  and 
took  a  seat  near  the  door.  There  was  flour 
on  her  elbow ;  and  she  held  a  spoon  in  her 
hand. 

"  Now  you  look  like  yourself,"  she  said, 
regarding  him  with  approval  as  he  sat  read 
ing  before  the  bookcase.  "  I  started  to  tell 
you  what  Harriet  told  me." 

He  looked  over  the  top  of  his  book  at 
her. 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  stopped  the 
stream  at  its  source.  Now  you  propose  to 
let  it  run  down  to  me  —  or  up  to  me:  how 
do  you  know  it  will  not  run  past  me  ?  " 

"  Now  don't  talk  in  that  way,"  she  said, 
"this  is  something  you  will  want  to  know," 
and  she  related  what  Harriet  had  chronicled. 


VIII 

WHEN  she  had  left  the  room,  he  put  back 
into  its  place  the  volume  he  was  reading:  its 
power  over  him  was  gone.  All  the  voices 
of  all  his  books,  speaking  to  him  from  lands 
and  ages,  grew  simultaneously  hushed.  He 
crossed  the  library  to  a  front  window  open 
ing  upon  the  narrow  rocky  street  and  sat 
with  his  elbow  on  the  window-sill,  the  large 
fingers  of  one  large  hand  unconsciously 
searching  his  brow  —  that  habit  of  men  of 
thoughtful  years,  the  smoothing  out  of  the 
inner  problems. 

The  home  of  Professor  Hardage  was  not 
in  one  of  the  best  parts  of  the  town.  There 
was  no  wealth  here,  no  society  as  it  impres 
sively  calls  itself;  there  were  merely  well- 
to-do  human  beings  of  ordinary  intelligence 
and  of  kindly  and  unkindly  natures.  The 
houses,  constructed  of  frame  or  of  brick,  were 
crowded  wall  against  wall  along  the  sidewalk  ; 
in  the  rear  were  little  gardens  of  flowers  and 
173 


1 74       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  vegetables.  The  street  itself  was  well 
shaded ;  and  one  forest  tree,  the  roots  of 
which  bulged  up  through  the  mossy  bricks 
of  the  pavement,  hung  its  boughs  before  his 
windows.  Throughout  life  he  had  found 
so  many  companions  in  the  world  outside  of 
mere  people,  and  this  tree  was  one.  From 
the  month  of  leaves  to  the  month  of  no 
leaves  —  the  period  of  long  hot  vacations  — 
when  his  eyes  were  tired  and  his  brain  and 
heart  a  little  tired  also,  many  a  time  it  re 
freshed  him  by  all  that  it  was  and  all  that  it 
stood  for  —  this  green  tent  of  the  woods 
arching  itself  before  his  treasured  shelves. 
In  it  for  him  were  thoughts  of  cool  solitudes 
and  of  far-away  greenness ;  with  tormenting 
visions  also  of  old  lands,  the  crystal-aired, 
purpling  mountains  of  which,  and  valleys 
full  of  fable,  he  was  used  to  trace  out  upon 
the  map,  but  knew  that  he  should  never  see 
or  press  with  responsive  feet. 

For  travel  was  impossible  to  him.  Part  of 
his  small  salary  went  to  the  family  of  a  brother ; 
part  disappeared  each  year  in  the  buying  of 
books  —  at  once  his  need  and  his  passion ; 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       175 

there  were  the  expenses  of  living ;  and  Miss 
Anna  always  exacted  appropriations. 

"  I  know  we  have  not  much,  but  then  my 
little  boys  and  girls  have  nothing;  and  the 
poor  must  help  the  poorer." 

"Very  well/'  he  would  reply,  "but  some 
day  you  will  be  a  beggar  yourself,  Anna." 

"  Oh,  well  then,  if  I  am,  I  do  not  doubt 
that  I  shall  be  a  thrifty  old  mendicant.  And 
I'll  beg  far  you!  So  don't  you  be  uneasy; 
and  give  me  what  I  want." 

She  always  looked  like  a  middle-aged 
Madonna  in  the  garb  of  a  housekeeper. 
Indeed,  he  was  wont  to  call  her  the  Ma 
donna  of  the  Dishes;  but  at  these  times,  and 
in  truth  for  all  deeper  ways,  he  thought  of 
her  as  the  Madonna  of  the  Motherless. 
Nevertheless  he  was  resolute  that  out  of 
this  many-portioned  salary  something  must 
yet  be  saved. 

"  The  time  will  come,"  he  threatened, 
"  when  some  younger  man  will  want  my 
professorship  —  and  will  deserve  it.  I  shall 
either  be  put  out  or  I  shall  go  out;  and 
then  —  decrepitude,  uselessness,  penury,  un- 


176        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

less  something  has  been  hoarded.  So,  Anna, 
out  of  the  frail  uncertain  little  basketful  of 
the  apples  of  life  which  the  college  authori 
ties  present  to  me  once  a  year,  we  must 
save  a  few  for  what  may  prove  a  long  hard 
winter." 

Professor  Hardage  was  a  man  somewhat 
past  fifty,  of  ordinary  stature  and  heavy  fig 
ure,  topped  with  an  immense  head.  His 
was  not  what  we  call  rather  vaguely  the 
American  face.  In  Germany  had  he  been 
seen  issuing  from  the  lecture  rooms  of  a 
university,  he  would  have  been  thought  at 
home  and  his  general  status  had  been  as 
sumed  :  there  being  that  about  him  which 
bespoke  the  scholar,  one  of  those  quiet  self- 
effacing  minds  that  have  long  since  passed 
with  entire  humility  into  the  service  of  vast 
themes.  In  social  life  the  character  of  a 
noble  master  will  in  time  stamp  itself  upon 
the  look  and  manners  of  a  domestic;  and  in 
time  the  student  acquires  the  lofty  hall-mark 
of  what  he  serves. 

It  was  this  perhaps  that  immediately 
distinguished  him  and  set  him  apart  in 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       177 

every  company.  The  appreciative  observer 
said  at  once  :  "  Here  is  a  man  who  may  not 
himself  be  great ;  but  he  is  at  least  great 
enough  to  understand  greatness :  he  is  a 
follower  of  greatness." 

As  so  often  is  the  case  with  the  strong 
American,  he  was  self-made  —  that  glory  of 
our  boasting.  But  we  sometimes  forget  that 
an  early  life  of  hardship,  while  it  may  bring 
out  what  is  best  in  a  man,  so  often  uses 
up  his  strength  and  burns  his  ambition  to 
ashes  in  the  fierce  fight  against  odds  too 
great.  So  that  the  powers  which  should 
have  carried  him  far  carry  him  only  a  little 
distance  or  leave  him  standing  exhausted 
where  he  began. 

When  Alfred  Hardage  was  eighteen,  he 
had  turned  his  eyes  toward  a  professorship  in 
one  of  the  great  universities  of  his  country ; 
before  he  was  thirty  he  had  won  a  professor 
ship  in  the  small  but  respectable  college  of 
his  native  town ;  and  now,  when  past  fifty, 
he  had  never  won  anything  more.  For  him 
ambition  was  like  the  deserted  martin  box 
in  the  corner  of  his  yard  :  returning  summers 


178        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

brought  no  more  birds.  Had  his  abilities 
been  even  more  extraordinary,  the  result 
could  not  have  been  far  otherwise.  He  had 
been  compelled  to  forego  for  himself  as  a 
student  the  highest  university  training,  and 
afterward  to  win  such  position  as  the  world 
accorded  him  without  the  prestige  of  study 
abroad. 

It  became  his  duty  in  his  place  to  teach 
the  Greek  language  and  its  literature;  some 
times  were  added  classes  in  Latin.  This 
was  the  easier  problem.  The  more  difficult 
problem  grew  out  of  the  demand,  that  he 
should  live  intimately  in  a  world  of  much 
littleness  and  not  himself  become  little ;  feel 
interested  in  trivial  minds  at  street  corners, 
yet  remain  companion  and  critic  of  some  of 
the  greatest  intellects  of  human  kind ;  con 
tend  with  occasional  malice  and  jealousy  in 
the  college  faculty,  yet  hold  himself  above 
these  carrion  passions  ;  retain  his  intellectual 
manhood,  yet  have  his  courses  of  study  nar 
rowed  and  made  superficial  for  him  ;  be  free 
yet  submit  to  be  patronized  by  some  of  his 
fellow-citizens,  because  they  did  him  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       179 

honor  to  employ  him  for  so  much  a 
year  as  sage  and  moral  exampler  to  their 
sons. 

Usually  one  of  two  fates  overtakes  the 
obscure  professional  scholar  in  this  country  : 
either  he  shrinks  to  the  dimensions  of  a  true 
villager  and  deserts  the  vast  ness  of  his  library; 
or  he  repudiates  the  village  and  becomes  a 
cosmopolitan  recluse  —  lonely  toiler  among 
his  books.  Few  possess  the  breadth  and 
equipoise  which  will  enable  them  to  pass 
from  day  to  day  along  mental  paths,  which 
have  the  Forum  of  Augustus  or  the  Groves 
of  the  Academy  at  one  end  and  the  babbling 
square  of  a  modern  town  at  the  other ;  re 
maining  equally  at  home  amid  ancient  ideals 
and  everyday  realities. 

It  was  the  fate  of  the  recluse  that  threatened 
him.  He  had  been  born  with  the  scholar's 
temperament  —  this  furnished  the  direction; 
before  he  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty-five 
he  had  lost  his  wife  and  two  sons  —  that 
furrowed  the  tendency.  During  the  years 
immediately  following  he  had  tried  to  fill  an 
immense  void  of  the  heart  with  immense 


180        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

labors  of  the  intellect.  The  void  remained ; 
yet  undoubtedly  compensation  for  loneliness 
had  been  found  in  the  fixing  of  his  affections 
upon  what  can  never  die  —  the  inexhaustible 
delight  of  learning. 

Thus  the  life  of  the  book-worm  awaited 
him  but  for  an  interference  excellent  and 
salutary  and  irresistible.  This  was  the  con 
stant  companionship  of  a  sister  whose  nature 
enabled  her  to  find  its  complete  universe  in 
the  only  world  that  she  had  ever  known : 
she  walking  ever  broad-minded  through  the 
narrowness  of  her  little  town ;  remaining 
white  though  often  threading  its  soiling 
ways  ;  and  from  every  life  which  touched 
hers,  however  crippled  and  confined,  extract 
ing  its  significance  instead  of  its  insignificance, 
shy  harmonies  instead  of  the  easy  discords 
which  can  so  palpably  be  struck  by  any 
passing  hand. 

It  was  due  to  her  influence,  therefore,  that 
his  life  achieved  the  twofold  development 
which  left  him  normal  in  the  middle  years ; 
the  fresh  pursuing  scholar  still  but  a  man 
practically  welded  to  the  people  among  whom 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       1 8 1 

he  lived  —  receiving  their  best  and  giving 
his  best. 

But  we  cannot  send  our  hearts  out  to  play 
at  large  among  our  kind,  without  their  com 
ing  to  choose  sooner  or  later  playfellows  to 
be  loved  more  than  the  rest. 

Two  intimacies  entered  into  the  life  of 
Professor  Hardage.  The  first  of  these  had 
been  formed  many  years  before  with  Judge 
Ravenel  Morris.  They  had  discovered  each 
other  by  drifting  as  lonely  men  do  in  the 
world ;  each  being  without  family  ties,  each 
loving  literature,  each  having  empty  hours. 
The  bond  between  them  had  strengthened, 
until  it  had  become  to  each  a  bond  of 
strength  indeed,  mighty  and  uplifting. 

The  other  intimacy  was  one  of  those  for 
which  human  speech  will  never,  perhaps,  be 
called  upon  to  body  forth  its  describing 
word.  In  the  psychology  of  feeling  there 
are  states  which  we  gladly  choose  to  leave 
unlanguaged.  Vast  and  deep-sounding  as  is 
the  orchestra  of  words,  there  are  scores 
which  we  never  fling  upon  such  instruments 
—  realities  that  lie  outside  the  possibility 


1 82        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

and  the  desirability  of  utterance  as  there  are 
rays  of  the  sun  that  fall  outside  the  visible 
spectrum  of  solar  light. 

What  description  can  be  given  in  words  of 
that  bond  between  two,  when  the  woman 
stands  near  the  foot  of  the  upward  slope  of 
life,  and  the  man  is  already  passing  down  on 
the  sunset  side,  with  lengthening  afternoon 
shadows  on  the  gray  of  his  temples  —  be 
tween  them  the  cold  separating  peaks  of  a 
generation? 

Such  a  generation  of  toiling  years  separated 
Professor  Hardage  from  Isabel  Conyers. 
When,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  she  returned 
after  years  of  absence  in  an  eastern  college  — 
it  was  a  tradition  of  her  family  that  its  women 
should  be  brilliantly  educated  —  he  verged 
upon  fifty.  To  his  youthful  desires  that 
interval  was  nothing;  but  to  his  disciplined 
judgment  it  was  everything. 

"  Even  though  it  could  be,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  it  should  not  be,  and  therefore  it 
shall  not." 

His  was  an  idealism  that  often  leaves  its 
holder  poor  indeed  save  in  the  possession  of 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       183 

its  own  incorruptible  wealth.  No  doubt  also 
the  life-long  study  of  the  ideals  of  classic 
time  came  to  his  guidance  now  with  their 
admonitions  of  exquisite  balance,  their  mod 
eration  and  essential  justness. 

But  after  he  had  given  up  all  hope  of  her, 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  draw  her  to  him  in 
other  ways ;  and  there  was  that  which  drew 
her  unfathomably  to  him  —  all  the  more 
securely  since  in  her  mind  there  was  no 
thought  that  the  bond  between  them  would 
ever  involve  the  possibility  of  love  and 
marriage. 

His  library  became  another  home  to  her. 
One  winter  she  read  Greek  with  him  — 
authors  not  in  her  college  course.  After 
ward  he  read  much  more  Greek  to  her. 
Then  they  laid  Greek  aside,  and  he  took 
her  through  the  history  of  its  literature  and 
through  that  other  noble  one,  its  deathless 
twin. 

When  she  was  not  actually  present,  he  yet 
took  her  with  him  through  the  wide  regions  of 
his  studies  —  set  her  figure  in  old  Greek  land 
scapes  and  surrounded  it  with  dim  shapes  of 


1 84        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

loveliness  —  saw  her  sometimes  as  the  per 
fection  that  went  into  marble  —  made  her  a 
portion  of  legend  and  story,  linking  her  with 
Nausicaa  and  Andromache  and  the  lost  others. 
Then  quitting  antiquity  with  her  altogether, 
he  passed  downward  with  her  into  the  days 
of  chivalry,  brought  her  to  Arthur's  court, 
and  invested  her  with  one  character  after 
another,  trying  her  by  the  ladies  of  knightly 
ideals  —  reading  her  between  the  lines  in  all 
the  king's  idyls. 

But  last  and  best,  seeing  her  in  the  clear 
white  light  of  her  own  country  and  time  — 
as  the  spirit  of  American  girlhood,  pure, 
refined,  faultlessly  proportioned  in  mental 
and  physical  health,  full  of  kindness,  full  of 
happiness,  made  for  love,  made  for  mother 
hood.  All  this  he  did  in  his  hopeless  and 
idealizing  worship  of  her ;  and  all  this  and 
more  he  hid  away  :  for  he  too  had  his  crypt. 

So  watching  her  and  watching  vainly  over 
her,  he  was  the  first  to  see  that  she  was 
loved  and  that  her  nature  was  turning  away 
from  him,  from  all  that  he  could  offer  —  sub 
dued  by  that  one  other  call. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       185 

"  Now,  Fates,"  he  said,  "  by  whatsoever 
names  men  have  blindly  prayed  to  you ; 
you  that  love  to  strike  at  perfection,  and  pass 
over  a  multitude  of  the  ordinary  to  reach 
the  rare,  stand  off  for  a  few  years !  Let 
them  be  happy  together  in  their  love,  their 
marriage,  and  their  young  children.  Let  the 
threads  run  freely  and  be  joyously  interwoven. 
Have  mercy  at  least  for  a  few  years  !  " 

A  carnage  turned  a  corner  of  the  street 
and  was  driven  to  the  door.  Isabel  got  out, 
and  entered  the  hall  without  ringing. 

He  met  her  there  and  as  she  laid  her 
hands  in  his  without  a  word,  he  held  them 
and  looked  at  her  without  a  word.  He 
could  scarcely  believe  that  in  a  few  days  her 
life  could  so  have  drooped  as  under  a  dread 
ful  blight. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-by,"  and  with 
a  quiver  of  the  lips  she  turned  her  face  aside 
and  brushed  past  him,  entering  the  library. 

He  drew  his  own  chair  close  to  hers  when 
she  had  seated  herself. 

"  I  thought  you  and  your  grandmother 
were  going  later :  is  not  this  unexpected  ?  " 


1 86       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  unexpected." 

"  But  of  course  she  is  going  with  you  ? " 

"  No,  I  am  going  alone." 

"  For  the  summer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  the  summer.  I  suppose  for  a 
long  time." 

She  continued  to  sit  with  her  cheek 
leaning  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  her 
eyes  directed  outward  through  the  windows. 
He  asked  reluctantly : 

"  Is  there  any  trouble  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  trouble." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is.  I  can 
not  tell  any  one  what  it  is." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?  " 

"  No,  there  is  nothing  you  can  do.  There 
is  nothing  any  one  can  do." 

Silence  followed  for  some  time.  He 
smiled  at  her  sadly : 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  the  trouble  is  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  know  what  it  is.  I  believe 
I  wish  you  did  know.  But  I  cannot  tell 
you." 

"  Is  it  not  Rowan  ?  " 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       187 

She  waited  awhile  without  change  of 
posture  and  answered  at  length  without 
change  of  tone : 

"  Yes,  it  is  Rowan." 

The  stillness  of  the  room  became  intense 
and  prolonged;  the  rustling  of  the  leaves 
about  the  window  sounded  like  noise. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  marry  him, 
Isabel  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  going  to  marry  him.  I 
am  never  going  to  marry  him.'* 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  helplessly  to 
him.  He  would  not  take  it  and  it  fell  to 
her  side :  at  that  moment  he  did  not  dare. 
But  of  what  use  is  it  to  have  kept  faith  with 
high  ideals  through  trying  years  if  they  do 
not  reward  us  at  last  with  strength  in  the 
crises  of  character  ?  No  doubt  they  rewarded 
him  now :  later  he  reached  down  and  took 
her  hand  and  held  it  tenderly. 

cc  You  must  not  go  away.  You  must  be 
reconciled  to  him.  Otherwise  it  will  sadden 
your  whole  summer.  And  it  will  sadden 
his." 

"  Sadden  the  whole  summer,"  she  repeated, 


1 88        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  a  summer  ?  It  will  sadden  a  life.  If  there 
is  eternity,  it  will  sadden  eternity." 

"  Is  it  so  serious  ? " 

"  Yes,  it  is  as  serious  as  anything  could 
be." 

After  a  while  she  sat  up  wearily  and  turned 
her  face  to  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  Cannot  you  help  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I 
do  not  believe  I  can  bear  this.  I  do  not 
believe  I  can  bear  it." 

Perhaps  it  is  the  doctors  who  hear  that 
tone  oftenest  —  little  wonder  that  they  are 
men  so  often  with  sad  or  with  calloused  faces. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  can  do.  But 
cannot  you  do  something  ?  You  were  the 
only  person  in  the  world  that  I  could  go  to. 
I  did  not  think  I  could  ever  come  to  you ; 
but  I  had  to  come.  Help  me." 

He  perceived  that  commonplace  counsel 
would  be  better  than  no  counsel  at  all. 

"  Isabel,"  he  asked,  "  are  you  suffering 
because  you  have  wronged  Rowan  or  be 
cause  you  think  he  has  wronged  you  ?  " 

"  No,    no,   no,"  she    cried,   covering    her 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       189 

face  with  her  hands,  "  I  have  not  wronged 
him  !  I  have  not  wronged  any  one  !  He  has 
wronged  me  !  " 

"  Did  he  ever  wrong  you  before  ? " 

"  No,  he  never  wronged  me  before.  But 
this  covers  everything  —  the  whole  past." 

"  Have  you  ever  had  any  great  trouble 
before,  Isabel  ? " 

"  No,  I  have  never  had  any  great  trouble 
before.  At  times  in  my  life  I  may  have 
thought  I  had,  but  now  I  know." 

"  You  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  sooner 
or  later  all  of  us  have  troubles  that  we  think 
we  cannot  bear." 

She  shook  her  head  wearily :  "  It  does 
not  do  any  good  to  think  of  that !  It  does 
not  help  me  in  the  least !  " 

"  But  it  does  help  if  there  is  any  one  to 
whom  we  can  tell  our  troubles." 

"  I  cannot  tell  mine." 

"  Cannot  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  believe  I  wish  you  knew,  but  I 
could  not  tell  you.  No,  I  do  not  even  wish 
you  to  know." 

"  Have  you  seen  Kate  ?  " 


1 90       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  again: 
"  No,  no,  no,"  she  cried,  "  not  Kate ! "  Then 
she  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  suddenly 
kindling:  "  Have  you  heard  what  Kate's  life 
has  been  since  her  marriage  ? " 

"  We  have  all  heard,  I  suppose." 

"  She  has  never  spoken  a  word  against 
him  —  not  even  to  me  from  whom  she 
never  had  a  secret.  How  could  I  go  to 
her  about  Rowan  ?  Even  if  she  had  con 
fided  in  me,  I  could  not  tell  her  this." 

"If  you  are  going  away,  change  of  scene 
will  help  you  to  forget  it." 

"  No,  it  will  help  me  to  remember." 

"  There  is  prayer,  Isabel." 

"  I  know  there  is  prayer.  But  prayer 
does  not  do  any  good.  It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  this." 

"  Enter  as  soon  as  possible  into  the  pleas 
ures  of  the  people  you  are  to  visit." 

"  I  cannot !     I  do  not  wish  for  pleasure." 

"Isabel,"  he  said  at  last,  "forgive  him." 

"  I  cannot  forgive  him." 

"Have  you  tried?" 

"  No,  I  cannot  try.     If  I  forgave  him,  it 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       191 

would  only  be  a  change  in  me :  it  would  not 
change  him  :  it  would  not  undo  what  he  has 
done." 

"  Do  you  know  the  necessity  of  self- 
sacrifice  ? " 

"  But  how  can  I  sacrifice  what  is  best  in 
me  without  lowering  myself?  Is  it  a  virtue 
in  a  woman  to  throw  away  what  she  holds  to 
be  highest  ? " 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  returning  to  the 
point,  "that,  if  you  forgive  him,  you  become 
changed  yourself.  You  no  longer  see  what 
he  has  done  as  you  see  it  now.  That  is  the 
beauty  of  forgiveness  :  it  enables  us  better 
to  understand  those  whom  we  have  forgiven. 
Perhaps  it  will  enable  you  to  put  yourself 
in  his  place." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  eyes  with  a 
shudder :  "  You  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying,"  she  cried,  and  rose. 

"  Then  trust  it  all  to  time,"  he  said  finally, 
"that  is  best!  Time  alone  solves  so  much. 
Wait !  Do  not  act !  Think  and  feel  as  lit 
tle  as  possible.  Give  time  its  merciful  chance. 
I'll  come  to  see  you." 


192        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

They  had  moved  toward  the  door.  She 
drew  off  her  glove  which  she  was  putting 
on  and  laid  her  hand  once  more  in  his. 

"  Time  can  change  nothing.  I  have 
decided." 

As  she  was  going  down  the  steps  to  the 
carriage,  she  turned  and  came  back. 

"  Do  not  come  to  see  me  !  I  shall  come 
to  you  to  say  good-by.  It  is  better  for  you 
not  to  come  to  the  house  just  now.  I  might 
not  be  able  to  see  you." 

Isabel  had  the  carriage  driven  to  the 
Osborns'. 

The  house  was  situated  in  a  pleasant  street 
of  delightful  residences.  It  had  been  newly 
built  on  an  old  foundation  as  a  bridal  present 
to  Kate  from  her  father.  She  had  furnished  it 
with  a  young  wife's  pride  and  delight  and  she 
had  lined  it  throughout  with  thoughts  of  in 
communicable  tenderness  about  the  life  his 
tory  just  beginning.  Now,  people  driving  past 
(and  there  were  few  in  town  who  did  not  know) 
looked  at  it  as  already  a  prison  and  a  doom. 

Kate  was  sitting  in  the  hall  with  some 
work  in  her  lap.  Seeing  Isabel  she  sprang 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       193 

up  and  met  her  at  the  door,  greeting  her 
as  though  she  herself  were  the  happiest  of 
wives. 

"Do  you  know  how  long  it  has  been  since 
you  were  here  ?  "  she  exclaimed  chidingly. 
"  I  had  not  realized  how  soon  young  married 
people  can  be  forgotten  and  pushed  aside.'* 

"  Forget  you,  dearest !  I  have  never 
thought  of  you  so  much  as  since  I  was 
here  last." 

"  Ah,"  thought  Kate  to  herself,  "she  has 
heard.  She  has  begun  to  feel  sorry  for  me 
and  has  begun  to  stay  away  as  people  avoid 
the  unhappy." 

But  the  two  friends,  each  smiling  into  the 
other's  eyes,  their  arms  around  each  other, 
passed  into  the  parlors. 

"  Now  that  you  are  here  at  last,  I  shall 
keep  you,"  said  Kate,  rising  from  the  seat 
they  had  taken.  "  I  will  send  the  carriage 
home.  George  cannot  be  here  to  lunch  and 
we  shall  have  it  all  to  ourselves  as  we  used 
to  when  we  were  girls  together." 

"  No,"  exclaimed  Isabel,  drawing  her  down 
into  the  seat  again,  "  I  cannot  stay.  I  had 


1 94       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

only  a  few  moments  and  drove  by  just  to 
speak  to  you,  just  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
love  you." 

Kate's  face  changed  and  she  dropped  her 
eyes.  "  Is  so  little  of  me  so  much  nowa 
days  ?  >:  she  asked,  feeling  as  though  the 
friendship  of  a  lifetime  were  indeed  be 
ginning  to  fail  her  along  with  other  things. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  cried  Isabel.  "  I  wish  we 
could  never  be  separated." 

She  rose  quickly  and  went  over  to  the 
piano  and  began  to  turn  over  the  music. 
"  It  seems  so  long  since  I  heard  any  music. 
What  has  become  of  it  ?  Has  it  all  gone 
out  of  life  ?  I  feel  as  though  there  were 
none  any  more." 

Kate  came  over  and  looked  at  one  piece 
of  music  after  another  irresolutely. 

"  I  have  not  touched  the  piano  for  weeks." 

She  sat  down  and  her  fingers  wandered 
forcedly  through  a  few  chords.  Isabel  stepped 
quickly  to  her  side  and  laid  restraining  hands 
softly  upon  hers  :  "  No ;  not  to-day." 

Kate  rose  with  averted  face :  "  No ;  not  any 
music  to-day!  " 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       195 

The  friends  returned  to  their  seat,  on  which 
Kate  left  her  work.  She  took  it  up  and  for 
a  few  moments  Isabel  watched  her  in  silence. 

"When  did  you  see  Rowan?" 

"  You  know  he  lives  in  the  country,"  re 
plied  Isabel,  with  an  air  of  defensive  gayety. 

"  And  does  he  never  come  to  town  ? " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

Kate  took  this  seriously  and  her  head 
sank  lower  over  her  work :  "  Ah,"  she 
thought  to  herself,  "she  will  not  confide  in 
me  any  longer.  She  keeps  her  secrets  from 
me  —  me  who  shared  them  all  my  life." 

"  What  is  it  you  are  making  ?  " 

Isabel  stretched  out  her  hand,  but  Kate 
with  a  cry  threw  her  breast  downward  upon 
her  work.  With  laughter  they  struggled 
over  it;  Kate  released  it  and  Isabel  rising 
held  it  up  before  her.  Then  she  allowed  it 
to  drop  to  the  floor. 

"  Isabel !"  exclaimed  Kate,  her  face  grown 
cold  and  hard.  She  stooped  with  dignity 
and  picked  up  the  garment. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,"  implored  Isabel,  throw 
ing  her  arms  around  her  neck.  "  I  did  not 


196        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

know  what  I  was  doing  !  "  and  she  buried  her 
face  on  the  young  wife's  shoulder.  "I  was 
thinking  of  myself:  I  cannot  tell  you  why  !  " 

Kate  released  herself  gently.  Her  face 
remained  grave.  She  had  felt  the  first  wound 
of  motherhood  :  it  could  not  be  healed  at 
once.  The  friends  could  not  look  at  each 
other.  Isabel  began  to  draw  on  her  gloves 
and  Kate  did  not  seek  to  keep  her  longer. 

"  I  must  go.  Dear  friend,  have  you  for 
given  me  ?  I  cannot  tell  you  what  was  in 
my  heart.  Some  day  you  will  understand. 
Try  to  forgive  till  you  do  understand.'* 

Kate's  mouth  trembled  :  "  Isabel,  why  are 
you  so  changed  toward  me  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  have  not  changed  toward  you ! 
I  shall  never  change  toward  you  !  " 

"Are  you  too  happy  to  care  for  me  any 
longer  ? " 

"  Ah,  Kate,  I  am  not  too  happy  for  any 
thing.  Some  day  you  will  understand." 

She  leaned  far  out  and  waved  her  hand 
as  she  drove  away,  and  then  she  threw  her 
self  back  into  the  carriage.  "  Dear  injured 
friend !  Brave  loyal  woman ! "  she  cried,  "  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture        197 

men  we  loved  have  ruined  both  our  lives ; 
and  we  who  never  had  a  secret  from  each 
other  meet  and  part  as  hypocrites  to  shield 
them.  Drive  home,"  she  said  to  the  driver. 
"If  any  one  motions  to  stop,  pay  no  atten 
tion.  Drive  fast." 

Mrs.  Osborn  watched  the  carriage  out  of 
sight  and  then  walked  slowly  back  to  her 
work.  She  folded  the  soft  white  fabric  over 
the  cushions  and  then  laid  her  cheek  against 
it  and  gave  it  its  first  christening — the 
christening  of  tears. 


IX 

THE  court-house  clock  in  the  centre  of  the 
town  clanged  the  hour  often  —  hammered  it 
out  lavishly  and  cheerily  as  a  lusty  black 
smith  strikes  with  prodigal  arm  his  customary 
anvil.  Another  clock  in  a  dignified  church 
tower  also  struck  ten,  but  with  far  greater 
solemnity,  as  though  reminding  the  town 
clock  that  time  is  not  to  be  measured  out  to 
man  as  a  mere  matter  of  business,  but  intoned 
savingly  and  warningly  as  the  chief  com 
modity  of  salvation.  Then  another  clock  in 
a  more  attenuated  cobwebbed  steeple  also 
struck  ten,  reaffirming  the  gloomy  view  of 
its  resounding  brother  and  insisting  that  the 
town  clock  had  treated  the  subject  with 
sinful  levity. 

Nevertheless  the  town  clock  seemed  to 
have  the  best  of  the  argument  on  this  par 
ticular  day ;  for  the  sun  was  shining,  cool 
breezes  were  blowing,  and  the  streets  were 
thronged  with  people  intent  on  making  bar 
gains.  Possibly  the  most  appalling  idea  in 
198 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       199 

most  men's  notions  of  eternity  is  the  dread 
that  there  will  be  no  more  bargaining  there. 

A  bird's-eye  view  of  the  little  town  as  it 
lay  outspread  on  its  high  fertile  plateau,  sur 
rounded  by  green  woods  and  waving  fields, 
would  have  revealed  near  one  edge  of  it  a 
large  verdurous  spot  which  looked  like  an 
overrun  oasis.  This  oasis  was  enclosed  by  a 
high  fence  on  the  inside  of  which  ran  a  hedge 
of  lilacs,  privet,  and  osage  orange.  Some 
where  in  it  was  an  old  one-story  manor 
house  of  rambling  ells  and  verandas.  Else 
where  was  a  little  summer-house,  rose- 
covered;  still  elsewhere  an  arbor  vine-hung; 
at  various  other  places  secluded  nooks  with 
seats,  where  the  bushes  could  hide  you  and 
not  hear  you  —  a  virtue  quite  above  anything 
human.  Marguerite  lived  in  this  labyrinth. 

As  the  dissenting  clocks  finished  striking, 
had  you  been  standing  outside  the  fence  near 
a  little  side  gate  used  by  grocers'  and  bakers' 
carts,  you  might  have  seen  Marguerite  her 
self.  There  came  a  soft  push  against  the 
gate  from  within ;  and  as  it  swung  part  of 
the  way  open,  you  might  have  observed  that 


200       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  push  was  delivered  by  the  toe  of  a  little 
foot.  A  second  push  sent  it  still  farther. 
Then  there  was  a  pause  and  then  it  flew 
open  and  stayed  open.  At  first  there  ap 
peared  what  looked  like  an  inverted  snowy 
flagstaff  but  turned  out  to  be  a  long,  closed 
white  parasol ;  then  Marguerite  herself  ap 
peared,  bending  her  head  low  under  the 
privet  leaves  and  holding  her  skirts  close  in, 
so  that  they  might  not  be  touched  by  the 
whitewash  on  each  edge.  Once  outside,  she 
straightened  herself  up  with  the  lithe  grace 
of  a  young  willow,  released  her  skirts,  and 
balancing  herself  on  the  point  of  her  parasol, 
closed  the  gate  with  her  toe :  she  was  too 
dainty  to  touch  it. 

The  sun  shone  hot  and  Marguerite 
quickly  raised  her  parasol.  It  made  you 
think  of  some  silken  white  myriad-fluted 
mushroom  of  the  dark  May  woods ;  and 
Marguerite  did  not  so  much  seem  to  have 
come  out  of  the  house  as  out  of  the  garden 
—  to  have  slept  there  on  its  green  moss 
with  the  new  moon  on  her  eyelids  —  in 
deed  to  have  been  born  there,  in  some  wise 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       201 

compounded  of  violets  and  hyacinths ;  and 
as  the  finishing  touch  to  have  had  squeezed 
into  her  nature  a  few  drops  of  wildwood 
spritishness. 

She  started  toward  the  town  with  a  move 
ment  somewhat  like  that  of  a  tall  thin  lily 
stalk  swayed  by  zephyrs  —  with  a  lilt,  a  ca 
dence,  an  ever  changing  rhythm  of  joy  :  plain 
walking  on  the  solid  earth  was  not  for  her. 
At  friendly  houses  along  the  way  she  peeped 
into  open  windows,  calling  to  friends ;  she 
stooped  over  baby  carriages  on  the  sidewalk, 
noting  but  not  measuring  their  mysteries ; 
she  bowed  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  at 
passing  carriages ;  and  people  leaned  far  out 
to  bow  and  smile  at  her.  Her  passage 
through  the  town  was  somewhat  like  that  of 
a  butterfly  crossing  a  field. 

"  Will  he  be  there  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  did 
not  tell  him  I  was  coming,  but  he  heard 
me  say  I  should  be  there  at  half-past  ten 
o'clock.  It  is  his  duty  to  notice  my  least 
remark." 

When  she  reached  her  destination,  the 
old  town  library,  she  mounted  the  lowest 


2O2        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

step  and  glanced  rather  guiltily  up  and  down 
the  street.  Three  ladies  were  going  up  and 
two  men  were  going  down :  no  one  was 
coming  toward  Marguerite. 

"  Now,  why  is  he  not  here  ?  He  shall  be 
punished  for  this." 

She  paced  slowly  backward  and  forward 
yet  a  little  while.  Then  she  started 
resolutely  in  the  direction  of  a  street 
where  most  of  the  law  offices  were  situated. 
Turning  a  corner,  she  came  full  upon  Judge 
Morris. 

"Ah,  good  morning,  good  morning,"  he 
cried,  putting  his  gold-headed  cane  under  his 
arm  and  holding  out  both  hands.  "  Where 
did  you  sleep  last  night?  On  rose  leaves  ? " 

"  I  was  in  grandmother's  bed  when  I  left 
off,"  said  Marguerite,  looking  up  at  the  rim 
of  her  hat. 

"And  where  were  you  when  you  began 
again  ? " 

"  Still  in  grandmother's  bed.  I  think  I 
must  have  been  there  all  the  time.  I  know 
all  about  your  old  Blackstone  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing,"  she  continued,  glancing  at  a 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       203 

yellow  book  under  his  arm  and  speaking 
with  a  threat  as  though  he  had  adjudged  her 
ignorant. 

"  Ah,  then  you  will  make  a  good  lawyer's 
wife." 

ft  I  supposed  I'd  make  a  good  wife  of  any 
kind.  Are  you  coming  to  my  ball  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know  I  am  too  old  to  make 
engagements  far  ahead.  But  I  expect  to  be 
there.  If  I  am  not,  my  ghost  shall  attend." 

"How  shall  I  recognize  it?  Does  it 
dance  ?  I  don't  want  to  mistake  it  for 
Barbee." 

"  Barbee  shall  not  come  if  I  can  keep  him 
at  home." 

"  And  why,  please  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  falling  in  love  with 
you." 

"  But  why  shouldn't  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  wish  my  nephew  to  be  flirted." 

cc  But  how  do  you  know  I'd  flirt  him  ?  " 

"Ah,  I  knew  your  mother  when  she  was 
young  and  your  grandmother  when  she  was 
young  :  you're  all  alike." 

"  We  are  so  glad  we  are,"  said  Marguerite, 


204       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

as  she  danced  away  from  him  under  her 
parasol. 

Farther  down  the  street  she  met  Professor 
Hardage. 

"  I  know  all  about  your  old  Odyssey  — 
your  old  Horace  and  all  those  things/'  she 
said  threateningly.  "  I  am  not  as  ignorant  as 
you  think." 

"  I  wish  Horace  had  known  you." 

"  Would  it  have  been  nice  ?  " 

"He  might  have  written  an  ode  Ad  Mar- 
garitam  instead  of  Ad  Lalagem." 

"  Then  I  might  have  been  able  to  read 
it,"  she  said.  "  In  school  I  couldn't  read 
the  other  one.  But  you  mustn't  think  that 
I  did  not  read  a  great  deal  of  Latin.  The 
professor  used  to  say  that  I  read  my  Latin 
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-1-l-y,  but  that  I  didn't  get 
much  English  out  of  it.  I  told  him  I  got 
as  much  English  out  of  it  as  the  Romans 
did,  and  that  they  certainly  ought  to  have 
known  what  it  was  meant  for." 

cc  That  must  have  taught  him  a  lesson ! " 

"  Oh,  he  said  I'd  do :  I  was  called  the 
girl  who  read  Latin  perfectly,  regardless  of 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       205 

English.  And,  then,  I  won  a  prize  for  an 
essay  on  the  three  most  important  things 
that  the  United  States  has  contributed  to 
the  civilizations  of  the  Old  World.  I  said 
they  were  tobacco,  wild  turkeys  and  idle 
curiosity.  Of  course  every  one  knew  about 
tobacco  and  turkeys  ;  but  wasn't  it  clever  of 
me  to  think  of  idle  curiosity  ?  Now,  wasn't 
it  ?  I  made  a  long  list  of  things  and  then  I 
selected  these  from  my  list." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  the  other  things 
were  ! " 

"  Oh,  I've  forgotten  now  !  But  they  were 
very  important  at  the  time.  Are  you  coming 
to  my  ball  ?  " 

"  I  hope  to  come." 

"  And  is  Miss  Anna  coming  ?  " 

"  Miss  Anna  is  coming.  She  is  coming 
as  a  man  ;  and  she  is  going  to  bring  a  lady." 

"How  is  she  going  to  dress  as  a  man?  " 
said  Marguerite,  as  she  danced  away  from 
him  under  her  parasol. 

She  strolled  slowly  on  until  she  reached 
the  street  of  justice  and  the  jail ;  turning 
into  this,  she  passed  up  the  side  opposite 


206       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  law  offices.  Her  parasol  rested  far  back 
on  one  shoulder ;  to  any  lateral  observer 
there  could  have  been  no  mistake  regarding 
the  face  in  front  of  it.  She  passed  through 
a  group  of  firemen  sitting  in  their  shirt 
sleeves  in  front  of  the  engine-house,  disap 
peared  around  the  corner,  and  went  to  a 
confectioner's.  Presently  she  reentered  the 
street,  and  this  time  walked  along  the  side 
where  the  law  offices  were  grouped.  She 
disappeared  around  the  corner  and  entered 
a  dry-goods  store.  A  few  moments  later 
she  reentered  the  street  for  the  third  and 
last  time.  Just  as  she  passed  a  certain  law 
office,  she  dropped  her  packages.  No  one 
came  out  to  pick  them  up.  Marguerite  did 
this  herself — very  slowly.  Still  no  one  ap 
peared.  She  gave  three  sharp  little  raps 
on  the  woodwork  of  the  door. 

From  the  rear  office  a  red  head  was  thrust 
suddenly  out  like  a  surprised  woodpecker's. 
Barbee  hurried  to  the  entrance  and  looked 
up  the  street.  He  saw  a  good  many  people. 
He  looked  down  the  street  and  noticed  a 
parasol  moving  away. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       207 

"  I  supposed  you  were  in  the  court 
house/*  she  said,  glancing  at  him  with  sur 
prise.  "  Haven't  you  any  cases  ?  " 

"  One,"  he  answered,  "  a  case  of  life  and 
death." 

"  You  need  not  walk  against  me,  Barbee  ;  I 
am  not  a  vine  to  need  propping.  And  you  need 
not  walk  with  me.  I  am  quite  used  to  walk 
ing  alone :  my  nurse  taught  me  years  ago." 

"  But  now  you  have  to  learn  not  to  walk 
alone,  Marguerite." 

"  It  will  be  very  difficult." 

"  It  will  be  easy  when  the  right  man  steps 
forward :  am  I  the  right  man  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  the  library.  Good 
morning." 

cc  So  am  I  going  to  the  library." 

"Aren't  all  your  authorities  in  your  office?" 

"  All  except  one." 

They  turned  into  the  quiet  shady  street : 
they  were  not  the  first  to  do  this. 

When  they  reached  the  steps,  Marguerite 
sank  down. 

"  Why  do  I  get  so  tired  when  I  walk  with 
you,  Barbee?  You  exhaust  me  very  rapidly." 


20 8        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

He  sat  down  not  very  near  her,  but  soon 
edged  a  little  closer. 

Marguerite  leaned  over  and  looked  in 
tently  at  his  big,  thin  ear. 

"  What  a  lovely  red  your  ear  is,  seen 
against  a  clear  sky.  It  would  make  a  beau 
tiful  lamp-shade." 

"  You  may  have  both  of  them  —  and  all  the 
fixtures  —  solid  brass  —  an  antique  some  day." 

He  edged  a  little  closer. 

Marguerite  coughed  and  pointed  across  the 
street :  "  Aren't  those  trees  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  trees  !  What 
do  I  care  about  wood!  You're  the  tree  that 
I  want  to  dig  up,  and  take  home,  and  plant, 
and  live  under,  and  be  buried  by." 

"  That's  a  great  deal  —  all  in  one  sentence." 

"  Are  you  never  going  to  love  me  a  little, 
Marguerite  ?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"  Don't  torture  me." 

"  What  am  I  doing  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  doing  anything,  that's  the 
trouble.  The  other  night  I  was  sure  you 
loved  me." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       209 

"  I  didn't  say  so." 

"  But  you  looked  it." 

"  Then  I  looked  all  wrong  :  I  shall  change 
my  looks." 

"  Will  you  name  the  day  ?  " 

"  What  day  ?  " 

"  The  day." 

"I'll  name  them  all:  Monday, Tuesday  —  " 

"Ah,  Lord  —  " 

"  Barbee,  I'm  going  to  sing  you  a  love 
song  —  an  old,  old,  old  love  song.  Did 
you  ever  hear  one  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  hearing  mine  for  some  time." 

"This  goes  back  to  grandmother's  time. 
But  it's  the  man's  song :  you  ought  to  be 
singing  it  to  me." 

"  I  shall  continue  to  sing  my  own." 

Marguerite  began  to  sing  close  to  Barbee's 
ear : 

"I'll  give  to  you  a  paper  of  pins, 
If  that' s  the  way  that  love  begins, 
If  you  will  marry  me,  me,  me, 
If  you  will  marry  me." 

"  Pins  !  "  said  Barbee  ;  "  why,  that  old-time 


2 1  o        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

minstrel  must  have  been  singing  when  pins 
were  just  invented.     You  can  have  —  " 

Marguerite  quieted  him  with  a  finger  on 
his  elbow : 

*'  I'll  give  to  you  a  dress  of  red, 

Bound  all  around  with  golden  thread, 
If  you  will  marry  me,  me,  me, 
If  you  will  marry  me." 

"  How  about  a  dress  not  simply  bound  with 
golden  thread  but  made  of  it,  made  of  noth 
ing  else  !  and  then  hung  all  over  with  golden 
ornaments  and  the  heaviest  golden  utensils?" 

Marguerite  sang  on : 

"  I'll  give  to  you  a  coach  and  six, 
Every  horse  as  black  as  pitch, 
If  you  will  marry  me,  me,  me, 
If  you  will  marry  me." 

cc  I'll  make  it  two  coaches  and  twelve  white 
ponies." 

Marguerite  sang  on,  this  time  very  ten 
derly  : 

"  I'll  give  to  you  the  key  of  my  heart, 
That  we  may  love  and  never  part, 
If  you  will  marry  me,  me,  me, 
If  you  will  marry  me." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       2 1 1 

"  No  man  can  give  anything  better/'  said 
Barbee,  moving  closer  (as  close  as  possible) 
and  looking  questioningly  full  into  Margue 
rite's  eyes. 

Marguerite  glanced  up  and  down  the  street. 
The  moment  was  opportune,  the  disposition 
of  the  universe  seemed  kind.  The  big 
parasol  slipped  a  little  lower. 

"  Marguerite  .  .  .  Please,  Marguerite  .  .  . 
Marguerite." 

The  parasol  was  suddenly  pulled  down 
low  and  remained  very  still  a  moment :  then 
a  quiver  ran  round  the  fringe.  It  was  still 
again,  and  there  was  another  quiver.  It 
swayed  to  and  fro  and  round  and  round,  and 
then  stood  very,  very  still  indeed,  and  there 
was  a  violent  quiver. 

Then  Marguerite  ran  into  the  library  as 
out  of  a  sudden  shower ;  and  Barbee  with 
long  slow  strides  returned  to  his  office. 

"  Anna,"  said  Professor  Hardage,  laying 
his  book  across  his  knee  as  they  sat  that 
afternoon  in  the  shady  side  porch,  cc  I  saw 
Marguerite  this  morning  and  she  sent  her 


2 1 2        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

compliments.  They  were  very  pretty  com 
pliments.  I  sometimes  wonder  where  Mar 
guerite  came  from  —  out  of  what  lands  she 
has  wandered." 

cc  Well,  now  that  you  have  stopped  read 
ing,"  said  Miss  Anna,  laying  down  her  work 
and  smoothing  her  brow  (she  never  spoke 
to  him  until  he  did  stop  —  perfect  woman), 
"that  is  what  I  have  been  waiting  to  talk 
to  you  about :  do  you  wish  to  go  with  Har 
riet  to  Marguerite's  ball  ?  " 

"I  most  certainly  do  not  wish  to  go  with 
Harriet  to  Marguerite's  ball,"  he  said,  laugh 
ing,  "  I  am  going  with  you." 

"  Well,  you  most  certainly  are  not  going 
with  me  :  I  am  going  with  Harriet." 

"Anna!" 

"  If  I  do  not,  who  will  ?  Now  what  I  want 
you  to  do  is  to  pay  Harriet  some  attention 
after  I  arrive  with  her.  I  shall  take  her  into 
supper,  because  if  you  took  her  in,  she  would 
never  get  any.  But  suppose  that  after  sup 
per  you  strolled  carelessly  up  to  us  —  you 
know  how  men  do  —  and  asked  her  to  take 
a  turn  with  you." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       2 1  3 

"  What  kind  of  a  turn  in  Heaven's  name  ?  " 

"  Well,  suppose  you  took  her  out  into  the 
yard  —  to  one  of  those  little  rustic  seats  of 
Marguerite's  —  and  sat  there  with  her  for 
half  an  hour  —  in  the  darkest  place  you 
could  possibly  find.  And  I  want  you  to  try 
to  hold  her  hand." 

"Why,  Anna,  what  on  earth  —  " 

"  Now  don't  you  suppose  Harriet  would 
let  you  do  it,"  she  said  indignantly.  "  But 
what  I  want  her  to  have  is  the  pleasure  of 
refusing  :  it  would  be  such  a  triumph.  It 
would  make  her  happy  for  days  :  it  might 
lengthen  her  life  a  little." 

"  What  effect  do  you  suppose  it  would  have 
on  mine  ?  " 

His  face  softened  as  he  mused  on  the  kind 
of  woman  his  sister  was. 

"Now  don't  you  try  to  do  anything  else," 
she  added  severely.  "  I  don't  like  your  ex 
pression." 

He  laughed  outright:  "What  do  you 
suppose  I'd  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  you'd  do  anything;  but 
don't  you  do  it !  " 


2 1 4       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Miss  Anna's  invitation  to  Harriet  had 
been  written  some  days  before. 

She  had  sent  down  to  the  book-store  for 
ten  cents'  worth  of  tinted  note  paper  and  to 
the  drug  store  for  some  of  Harriet's  favorite 
sachet  powder.  Then  she  put  a  few  sheets 
of  the  paper  in  a  dinner  plate  and  sprinkled 
the  powder  over  them  and  set  the  plate 
where  the  powder  could  '  perfume  the  paper 
but  not  the  house.  Miss  Anna  was  averse 
to  all  odor-bearing  things  natural  or  artificial. 
The  perfect  triumph  of  her  nose  was  to  per 
ceive  absolutely  nothing.  The  only  trial  to 
her  in  cooking  was  the  fact  that  so  often  she 
could  not  make  things  taste  good  without 
making  them  smell  good. 

In  the  course  of  time,  bending  over  a  sheet 
of  this  note  paper,  with  an  expression  of  high 
nasal  disapproval,  Miss  Anna  had  written  the 
following  note  : 

"  A.  Hardage,  Esq.,  presents  the  compli 
ments  of  the  season  to  Miss  Crane  and  begs 
the  pleasure  of  her  company  to  the  ball. 
The  aforesaid  Hardage,  on  account  of  long 
intimacy  with  the  specified  Crane,  hopes  that 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       2  1 5 

she  (Crane)  will  not  object  to  riding  alone  at 
night  in  a  one-horse  rockaway  with  no  side 
curtains.  Crane  to  be  hugged  on  the  way  if 
Hardage  so  desires  —  and  Hardage  certainly 
will  desire.  Hardage  and  Crane  to  dance  at 
the  ball  together  while  their  strength  lasts." 

Having  posted  this  letter,  Miss  Anna 
went  to  her  orphan  and  foundling  asylum 
where  she  was  virgin  mother  to  the  mother 
less,  drawing  the  mantle  of  her  spotless  life 
around  little  waifs  who  strayed  into  the  world 
from  hidden  paths  of  shame. 


IT  was  past  one  o'clock  on  the  night  of 
the  ball. 

When  dew  and  twilight  had  fallen  on  the 
green  labyrinths  of  Marguerite's  yard,  the 
faintest,  slenderest  moon  might  have  been 
seen  bending  over  toward  the  spot  out 
of  drapery  of  violet  cloud.  It  descended 
through  the  secluded  windows  of  Margue 
rite's  room  and  attended  her  while  she 
dressed,  weaving  about  her  and  leaving 
with  her  the  fragrance  of  its  divine  youth 
passing  away.  Then  it  withdrew,  having 
appointed  a  million  stars  for  torches. 

Matching  the  stars  were  globe-like  lamps, 
all  of  one  color,  all  of  one  shape,  which 
Marguerite  had  had  swung  amid  the  inter 
laced  greenery  of  trees  and  vines  :  as  lanterns 
around  the  gray  bark  huts  of  slow-winged 
owls  ;  as  sun-tanned  grapes  under  the  arches 
of  the  vine-covered  summer-house;  as  love's 
lighthouses  above  the  reefs  of  tumbling 
rose-bushes  :  all  to  illumine  the  paths  which 
216 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       2 1 7 

led  to  nooks  and  seats.  For  the  night  would 
be  very  warm  ;  and  then  Marguerite  —  but 
was  she  the  only  one  ? 

The  three  Marguerites,  —  grandmother, 
mother,  and  daughter,  —  standing  side  by 
side  and  dressed  each  like  each  as  nearly  as 
was  fitting,  had  awaited  their  guests.  Three 
high-born  fragile  natures,  solitary  each  on 
the  stem  of  its  generation ;  not  made  for 
blasts  and  rudeness.  They  had  received 
their  guests  with  the  graciousness  of  sincere 
souls  and  not  without  antique  distinction ; 
for  in  their  veins  flowed  blood  which  had 
helped  to  make  manners  gentle  in  France 
centuries  ago. 

The  eldest  Marguerite  introduced  some 
of  her  aged  friends,  who  had  ventured  forth 
to  witness  the  launching  of  the  frail  life-boat, 
to  the  youngest;  the  youngest  Marguerite 
introduced'  some  of  hers  to  the  eldest ;  the 
Marguerite  linked  between  made  some  of 
hers  known  to  her  mother  and  to  her  child. 

Mrs.  Conyers  arrived  early,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  her  grandson,  Victor  Fielding; 
To-night  she  was  ennobled  with  jewels  — 


21 8       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  old  family  jewels  of  her  last  husband's 
family,  not  of  her  own. 

When  the  three  Marguerites  beheld  her, 
a  shadow  fell  on  their  faces.  The  change 
was  like  the  assumption  of  a  mask  behind 
which  they  could  efface  themselves  as  ladies 
and  receive  as  hostesses.  While  she  lin 
gered,  they  forebore  even  to  exchange 
glances  lest  feelings  injurious  to  a  guest 
should  be  thus  revealed  :  so  pure  in  them 
was  the  strain  of  courtesy  that  went  with 
proffered  hospitality.  (They  were  not  of 
the  kind  who  invite  you  to  their  houses 
and  having  you  thus  in  their  power  try  to 
pierce  you  with  little  insults  which  they 
would  never  dare  offer  openly  in  the  street : 
verbal  Borgias  at  their  own  tables  and  fire 
sides.)  The  moment  she  left  them,  the 
three  faces  became  effulgent  again. 

A  little  later,  strolling  across*  the  rooms 
toward  them  alone,  came  Judge  Morris,  a 
sprig  of  wet  heliotrope  in  his  button-hole, 
plucked  from  one  of  Marguerite's  plants. 
The  paraffin  starch  on  his  shirt  front  and 
collar  and  cuffs  gave  to  them  the  appearance 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       2 1 9 

and  consistency  of  celluloid  —  it  being  the 
intention  of  his  old  laundress  to  make  him 
indeed  the  stiffest  and  most  highly  polished 
gentleman  of  his  high  world.  His  noble 
face  as  always  a  sermon  on  kindness,  sin 
cerity,  and  peace ;  yet  having  this  contradic 
tion,  that  the  happier  it  seemed,  the  sadder 
it  was  to  look  at :  as  though  all  his  virtues 
only  framed  his  great  wrong ;  so  that  the 
more  clearly  you  beheld  the  bright  frame, 
the  more  deeply  you  felt  the  dark  picture. 

As  soon  as  they  discovered  him,  the 
Marguerites  with  a  common  impulse  linked 
their  arms  endearingly.  Six  little  white  feet 
came  regimentally  forward  ;  each  of  six  little 
white  hands  made  individual  forward  move 
ments  to  be  the  first  to  lie  within  his  palm  ; 
six  velvet  eyes  softened  and  glistened. 

Miss  Anna  came  with  Harriet;  Professor 
Hardage  came  alone  ;  Barbee  —  burgeoning 
Alcibiades  of  the  ballroom  —  came  with 
Self-Confidence.  He  strolled  indifferently 
toward  the  eldest  Marguerite,  from  whom 
he  passed  superiorly  to  the  central  one ;  by 
that  time  the  third  had  vanished. 


220        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Isabel  came  with  the  Osborns :  George 
soon  to  be  taken  secretly  home  by  Rowan ; 
Kate  (who  had  forced  herself  to  accompany 
him  despite  her  bereavement),  lacerated  but 
giving  no  sign  even  to  Isabel,  who  relieved 
the  situation  by  attaching  herself  momen 
tarily  to  her  hostesses. 

"  Mamma,"  protested  Marguerite,  with 
indignant  eyes,  "  do  you  wish  Isabel  to 
stand  here  and  eclipse  your  daughter  ? 
Station  her  on  the  far  side  of  grandmother, 
and  let  the  men  pass  this  way  first !  " 

The  Merediths  were  late.  As  they  ad 
vanced  to  pay  their  respects,  Isabel  main 
tained  her  composure.  An  observer,  who 
had  been  told  to  watch,  might  have  noticed 
that  when  Rowan  held  out  his  hand,  she  did 
not  place  hers  in  it ;  and  that  while  she  did 
not  turn  her  face  away  from  his  face,  her 
eyes  never  met  his  eyes.  She  stood  a  little 
apart  from  the  receiving  group  at  the 
moment  and  spoke  to  him  quickly  and 
awkwardly  : 

"  As  soon  as  you  can,  will  you  come  and 
walk  with  me  through  the  parlors  ?  Please 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       221 

do  not  pay  me  any  more  attention.  When 
the  evering  is  nearly  over,  will  you  find  me 
and  take  me  to  some  place  where  we  may 
not  be  interrupted  ?  I  will  explain." 

Without  waiting  for  his  assent,  she  left 
him,  and  returned  with  a  laugh  to  the  side 
of  Marguerite,  who  was  shaking  a  finger 
threateningly  at  her. 

It  was  now  past  one  o'clock :  guests  were 
already  leaving. 

When  Rowan  went  for  Isabel,  she  was 
sitting  with  Professor  Hardage.  They  were 
not  talking ;  and  her  eyes  had  a  look  of 
strained  expectancy.  As  soon  as  she  saw 
him,  she  rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Professor  Hardage ;  then  without  speaking 
and  still  without  looking  at  him,  she  placed 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  the  elbow  of  his 
sleeve.  As  they  walked  away,  she  renewed 
her  request  in  a  low  voice :  "  Take .  me 
where  we  shall  be  undisturbed." 

They  left  the  rooms.  It  was  an  interval 
between  the  dances :  the  verandas  were 
crowded.  They  passed  out  into  the  yard. 


222        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Along  the  cool  paths,  college  boys  and 
college  girls  strolled  by  in  couples,  not 
caring  who  listened  to  their  words  and  with 
that  laughter  of  youth,  the  whole  meaning 
of  which  is  never  realized  save  by  those 
who  hear  it  after  they  have  lost  it.  Older 
couples  sat  here  and  there  in  quiet  nooks  — 
with  talk  not  meant  to  be  heard  and  with 
occasional  laughter  so  different. 

They  moved  on,  seeking  greater  privacy. 
Marguerite's  lamps  were  burnt  out  —  brief 
flames  as  measured  by  human  passion.  But 
overhead  burnt  the  million  torches  of 
the  stars.  How  brief  all  human  passion 
measured  by  that  long,  long  light ! 

He  stopped  at  last: 

«  Here  ? " 

She  placed  herself  as  far  as  possible  from 
him. 

The  seat  was  at  the  terminus  of  a  path 
in  the  wildest  part  of  Marguerite's  garden. 
Overhead  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  a  soli 
tary  lantern  was  flickering  fitfully.  It  soon 
went  out.  The  dazzling  lights  of  the  ball 
room,  glimmering  through  boughs  and  vines, 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       223 

shot  a  few  rays  into  their  faces.  Music, 
languorous,  torturing  the  heart,  swelled  and 
died  on  the  air,  mingled  with  the  murmur- 
ings  of  eager  voices.  Close  around  them 
in  the  darkness  was  the  heavy  fragrance  of 
perishing  blossoms  —  earth  dials  of  yester 
day  ;  close  around  them  the  clean  sweetness 
of  fresh  ones — breath  of  the  coming  morn. 
It  was  an  hour  when  the  heart,  surrounded 
by  what  can  live  no  more  and  by  what 
never  before  has  lived,  grows  faint  and  sick 
with  yearnings  for  its  own  past  and  forlorn 
with  the  inevitableness  of  change  —  the 
cruelty  of  all  change. 

For  a  while  silence  lasted.  He  waited 
for  her  to  speak ;  she  tried  repeatedly  to  do 
so.  At  length  with  apparent  fear  that  he 
might  misunderstand,  she  interposed  an 
agitated  command : 

"  Do  not  say  anything." 

A  few  minutes  later  she  began  to  speak  to 
him,  still  struggling  for  her  self-control. 

"  I  do  not  forget  that  to-night  I  have  been 
acting  a  part,  and  that  I  have  asked  you  to 
act  a  part  with  me.  I  have  walked  with  you 


224       T/ie  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

and  I  have  talked  with  you,  and  I  am  with 
you  now  to  create  an  impression  that 
is  false ;  to  pretend  before  those  who  see 
us  that  nothing  is  changed.  I  do  not  for 
get  that  I  have  been  doing  this  thing  which 
is  unworthy  of  me.  But  it  is  the  first  time 
—  try  not  to  believe  it  to  be  my  character. 
I  am  compelled  to  tell  you  that  it  is  one  of 
the  humiliations  you  have  forced  upon  me." 

"  I  have  understood  this/*  he  said  hastily, 
breaking  the  silence  she  had  imposed  upon 
him. 

"  Then  let  it  pass,"  she  cried  nervously. 
"  It  is  enough  that  I  have  been  obliged  to 
observe  my  own  hypocrisies,  and  that  I 
have  asked  you  to  countenance  and  to  con 
ceal  them." 

He  offered  no  response.  And  1*n  a  little 
while  she  went  on  : 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you  one  thing  more. 
Last  week  I  made  all  my  arrangements  to  go 
away  at  once,  for  the  summer,  for  a  long 
time.  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  again. 
Two  or  three  times  I  started  to  the  station. 
I  have  stayed  until  now  because  it  seemed 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       225 

best  after  all  to  speak  to  you  once  more. 
This  is  my  reason  for  being  here  to-night ; 
and  it  is  the  only  apology  I  can  offer  to  my 
self  or  to  you  for  what  I  am  doing." 

There  was  a  sad  and  bitter  vehemence  in 
her  words ;  she  quivered  with  passion. 

"  Isabel,"  he  said  more  urgently,  "  there  is 
nothing  I  am  not  prepared  to  tell  you." 

When  she  spoke  again,  it  was  with  diffi 
culty  and  everything  seemed  to  hang  upon 
her  question  : 

"  Does  any  one  else  know  ? " 

His  reply  was  immediate: 

"  No  one  else  knows." 

"  Have  you  every  reason  to  believe  this  ?  " 

"  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  this." 

"  You  kept  your  secret  well,"  she  said 
with  mournful  irony.  "  You  reserved  it 
for  the  one  person  whom  it  could  most 
injure  :  my  privilege  is  too  great !  " 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  She  felt 
the  depth  of  conviction  with  which  he  spoke, 
yet  it  hurt  her.  She  liked  his  dignity  and 
his  self-control,  and  would  not  have  had 


226       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

them  less ;  yet  she  gathered  fresh  bitterness 
from  the  fact  that  he  did  not  lose  them.  But 
to  her  each  moment  disclosed  its  new  and 
uncontrollable  emotions;  as  words  came,  her 
mind  quickly  filled  again  with  the  things  she 
could  not  say.  She  now  went  on  : 

"  I  am  forced  to  ask  these  questions, 
although  I  have  no  right  to  ask  them  and 
certainly  I  have  no  wish.  I  have  wanted  to 
know  whether  I  could  carry  out  the  plan 
that  has  seemed  to  me  best  for  each  of  us. 
If  others  shared  your  secret,  I  could  not  do 
this.  I  am  going  away  —  I  am  going  in  the 
morning.  I  shall  remain  away  a  long  time. 
Since  we  have  been  seen  together  here 
to-night  as  usual,  no  one  suspects  now  that 
for  us  everything  has  become  nothing. 
While  I  am  away,  no  one  can  have  the 
means  of  finding  this  out.  Before  I  return, 
there  will  be  changes  —  there  may  be  many 
changes.  If  we  meet  with  indifference  then, 
it  will  be  thought  that  we  have  become 
indifferent,  one  of  us,  or  both  of  us  :  I  sup 
pose  it  will  be  thought  to  be  you.  There 
will  be  comment,  comment  that  will  be  hard 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       227 

to  stand ;  but  this  will  be  the  quietest  way  to 
end  everything —  as  far  as  anything  can  ever 
be  ended." 

"  Whatever  you  wish  !  I  leave  it  all  to 
you." 

She  did  not  pause  to  heed  his  words : 

"  This  will  spare  me  the  linking  of  my 
name  with  yours  any  further  just  now ;  it  will 
spare  me  all  that  I  should  suffer  if  the  matter 
which  estranges  us  should  be  discovered  and  be 
discussed.  It  will  save  me  hereafter,  perhaps, 
from  being  pointed  out  as  a  woman  who  so 
trusted  and  was  so  deceived.  It  may  shield 
my  life  altogether  from  some  notoriety  :  I 
could  be  grateful  for  that ! " 

She  was  thinking  of  her  family  name,  and 
of  the  many  proud  eyes  that  were  turned 
upon  her  in  the  present  and  out  of  the  past. 
There  was  a  sting  for  her  in  the  remem 
brance  and  the  sting  passed  into  her  con 
cluding  words : 

"  I  do  not  forget  that  when  I  ask  you 
to  do  all  this,  I,  who  am  not  given  to  prac 
tising  deception,  am  asking  you  to  go  on 
practising  yours.  I  am  urging  you  to  shirk 


228        The   Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  consequences  of  your  wrong-doing  —  to 
enjoy  in  the  world  an  untarnished  name  after 
you  have  tarnished  your  life.  Do  not  think 
I  forget  that !  Still  I  beg  you  to  do  as  \ 
say.  This  is  another  of  the  humi'iations 
you  have  led  me  to :  that  although  1  am 
separated  from  you  by  all  that  once  united 
us,  I  must  remain  partner  with  you  in  the 
concealment  of  a  thing  that  would  ruin  you 
if  it  were  known." 

She  turned  to  him  as  though  she  ex 
perienced  full  relief  through  her  hard  and 
cruel  words : 

"  Do  I  understand,  then,  that  this  is  to 
be  buried  away  by  you  —  and  by  me  —  from 
the  knowledge  of  the  world  ?  " 

"  No  one  else  has  any  right  to  know  it. 
I  have  told  you  that." 

"  Then  that  is  all !  " 

She  gave  a  quick  dismissal  to  the  subject, 
so  putting  an  end  to  the  interview. 

She  started  to  rise  from  her  seat ;  but  im 
pulses,  new  at  the  instant,  checked  her :  all 
the  past  checked  her,  all  that  she  was  herself 
and  all  that  he  had  been  to  her. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       229 

Perhaps  what  at  each  moment  had  angered 
her  most  was  the  fact  that  she  was  speaking, 
not  he.  She  knew  him  to  be  of  the  blood 
of  silent  men  and  to  have  inherited  their 
silence.  This  very  trait  of  his  had  rendered 
association  with  him  so  endearing.  Love 
had  been  so  divinely  apart  from  speech, 
either  his  or  her  own :  most  intimate  for 
having  been  most  mute.  But  she  knew  also 
that  he  was  capable  of  speech,  full  and  strong 
and  quick  enough  upon  occasion ;  and  her 
heart  had  cried  out  that  in  a  lifetime  this 
was  the  one  hour  when  he  should  not  have 
given  way  to  her  or  allowed  her  to  say  a 
word  —  when  he  should  have  borne  her 
down  with  uncontrollable  pleading. 

It  was  her  own  work  that  confronted 
her  and  she  did  not  recognize  it.  She  had 
exhausted  resources  to  convince  him  of  her 
determination  to  cast  him  off  at  once ;  to 
render  it  plain  that  further  parley  would  to 
her  be  further  insult.  She  had  made  him 
feel  this  on  the  night  of  his  confession ;  in 
the  note  of  direct  repulse  she  sent  him  by 
the  hand  of  a  servant  in  her  own  house  the 


230        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

following  afternoon ;  by  returning  to  him 
everything  that  he  had  ever  given  her ;  by 
her  refusal  to  acknowledge  his  presence  this 
evening  beyond  laying  upon  him  a  com 
mand  ;  and  by  every  word  that  she  had  just 
spoken.  And  in  all  this  she  had  thought 
only  of  what  she  suffered,  not  of  what  he 
must  be  suffering. 

Perhaps  some  late  instantaneous  recogni 
tion  of  this  flashed  upon  her  as  she  started  to 
leave  him  —  as  she  looked  at  him  sitting  there, 
his  face  turned  toward  her  in  stoical  accept 
ance  of  his  fate.  There  was  something  in 
the  controlled  strength  of  it  that  touched  her 
newly.  She  may  have  realized  that  if  he  had 
not  been  silent,  if  he  had  argued,  defended 
himself,  pleaded,  she  would  have  risen  and 
walked  back  to  the  house  without  a  word. 
It  turned  her  nature  toward  him  a  little,  that 
he  placed  too  high  a  value  upon  her  dismissal 
of  him  not  to  believe  it  irrevocable. 

Yet  it  hurt  her :  she  was  but  one  woman 
in  the  world  ;  could  the  thought  of  this  have 
made  it  easier  for  him  to  let  her  go  away  now 
without  a  protest  ? 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       231 

The  air  of  the  summer  night  grew  un 
bearable  for  sweetness  about  her.  The  faint 
music  of  the  ballroom  had  no  pity  for  her. 
There  young  eyes  found  joy  in  answering 
eyes,  passed  on  and  found  joy  in  others  and 
in  others.  Palm  met  palm  and  then  palms 
as  soft  and  then  palms  yet  softer.  Some 
minutes  before,  the  laughter  of  Marguerite 
in  the  shrubbery  quite  close  by  had  startled 
Isabel.  She  had  distinguished  a  voice. 
Now  Marguerite's  laughter  reached  her 
again  —  and  there  was  a  different  voice  with 
hers.  Change  !  change  !  one  put  away,  the 
place  so  perfectly  filled  by  another. 

A  white  moth  of  .the  night  wandered  into 
Rowan's  face  searching  its  features ;  then  it 
flitted  over  to  her  and  searched  hers,  its 
wings  fanning  and  clinging  to  her  lips ;  and 
then  it  passed  on,  pursuing  amid  mistakes 
and  inconstancies  its  life-quest  lasting  through 
a  few  darknesses. 

Fear  suddenly  reached  down  into  her  heart 
and  drew  up  one  question  ;  and  she  asked 
that  question  in  a  voice  low  and  cold  and 
guarded  : 


232        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  Sometime,  when  you  ask  another  woman 
to  marry  you,  will  you  think  it  your  duty 
to  tell  her?" 

"  I  will  never  ask  any  other  woman." 
"  I  did  not  inquire  for  your  intention ;  I 
asked  what  you  would   believe   to   be   your 
duty." 

"  It  will  never  become  my  duty.  But  if 
it  should,  I  would  never  marry  without  being 
true  to  the  woman ;  and  to  be  true  is  to  tell 
the  truth." 

"  You  mean  that  you  would  tell  her  ?  " 
"  I  mean  that  I  would  tell  her." 
After   a   little   silence   she   stirred    in    her 
seat  and  spoke,  all  her  anger  gone : 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you,  if  you  ever  do, 
not  to  tell  her  as  you  have  told  me  —  after  it 
is  too  late.  If  you  cannot  find  some  way  of 
letting  her  know  the  truth  before  she  loves 
you,  then  do  not  tell  her  afterward,  when  you 
have  won  her  life  away  from  her.  If  there 
is  deception  at  all,  then  it  is  not  worse  to 
go  on  deceiving  her  than  it  was  to  begin  to 
deceive  her.  Tell  her,  if  you  must,  while 
she  is  indifferent  and  will  not  care,  not  after 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       233 

she  has  given  herself  to  you  and  will  then 
have  to  give  you  up.  But  what  can  you,  a 
man,  know  what  it  means  to  a  woman  to  tell 
her  this  !  How  can  you  know,  how  can  you 
ever,  ever  know  !  " 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
her  voice  broke  with  tears. 

"Isabel  —  " 

"  You  have  no  right  to  call  me  by  my 
name,  and  I  have  no  right  to  hear  it,  as 
though  nothing  were  changed  between  us." 

"  I  have  not  changed." 

"  How  could  you  tell  me  !  Why  did  you 
ever  tell  me  !  "  she  cried  abruptly,  grief  break 
ing  her  down. 

"There  was  a  time  when  I  did  not  expect 
to  tell  you.  I  expected  to  do  as  other  men 
do." 

"  Ah,  you  would  have  deceived  me  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  turning  upon  him  with  fresh  suf 
fering.  "  You  would  have  taken  advantage 
of  my  ignorance  and  have  married  me  and 
never  have  let  me  know !  And  you  would 
have  called  that  deception  love  and  you  would 
have  called  yourself  a  true  man  !  " 


234       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  But  I  did  not  do  this  !  It  was  yourself 
who  helped  me  to  see  that  the  beginning 
of  morality  is  to  stop  lying  and  deception." 

"  But  if  you  had  this  on  your  conscience 
already,  what  right  had  you  ever  to  come  near 
me?" 

"  I  had  come  to  love  you  !  " 

"  Did  your  love  of  me  give  you  the  right 
to  win  mine  ?  " 

"  It  gave  me  the  temptation." 

"  And  what  did  you  expect  when  you 
determined  to  tell  me  this  ?  What  did  you 
suppose  such  a  confession  would  mean  to 
me  ?  Did  you  imagine  that  while  it  was 
still  fresh  on  your  lips,  I  would  smile  in 
your  face  and  tell  you  it  made  no  difference  ? 
Was  I  to  hear  you  speak  of  one  whose  youth 
and  innocence  you  toolc  away  through  her 
frailties,  and  then  step  joyously  into  her 
place  ?  Was  this  the  unfeeling,  the  degraded 
soul  you  thought  to  be  mine  ?  Would  I 
have  been  worthy  even  of  the  poor  love  you 
could  give  me,  if  I  had  done  that  ?  " 

"  I  expected  you  to  marry  me  !  I  ex 
pected  you  to  forgive.  I  have  this  at  least 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       235 

to  remember :  I  lost  you  honestly  when  I 
could  have  won  you  falsely." 

"  Ah,  you  have  no  right  to  seek  any 
happiness  in  what  is  all  sadness  to  me  ! 
And  all  the  sadness,  the  ruin  of  everything, 
comes  from  your  wrong-doing." 

"  Remember  that  my  wrong-doing  did 
not  begin  with  me.  I  bear  my  share  :  it  is 
enough  :  I  will  bear  no  more." 

A  long  silence  followed.  She  spoke  at 
last,  checking  her  tears  : 

"  And  so  this  is  the  end  of  my  dream  ! 
This  is  what  life  has  brought  me  to  !  And 
what  have  I  done  to  deserve  it  ?  To  leave 
home,  to  shun  friends,  to  dread  scandal,  to 
be  misjudged,  to  bear  the  burden  of  your 
secret  and  share  with  you  its  shame,  to  see 
my  years  stretch  out  before  me  with  no  love 
in  them,  no  ambitions,  no  ties  —  this  is  what 
life  has  brought  me,  and  what  have  I  done  to 
deserve  it  ?  " 

As  her  tears  ceased,  her  eyes  seemed  to  be 
looking  into  a  future  that  lacked  the  relief 
of  tears.  As  though  she  were  already  passed 
far  on  into  it  and  were  looking  back  to  this 


236       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

moment,  she  went  on,  speaking  very  slowly 
and  sadly  : 

"  We  shall  not  see  each  other  again  in  a 
long  time,  and  whenever  we  do,  we  shall  be 
nothing  to  each  other  and  we  shall  never 
speak  of  this.  There  is  one  thing  I  wish  to 
tell  you.  Some  day  you  may  have  false 
thoughts  of  me.  You  may  think  that  I  had 
no  deep  feeling,  no  constancy,  no  mercy,  no 
forgiveness  ;  that  it  was  easy  to  give  you  up, 
because  I  never  loved  you.  I  shall  have 
enough  to  bear  and  I  cannot  bear  that.  So 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  will  never  know 
what  my  love  for  you  was.  A  woman  can 
not  speak  till  she  has  the  right ;  and  before 
you  gave  me  the  right,  you  took  it  away. 
For  some  little  happiness  it  may  bring  me 
hereafter  let  me  tell  you  that  you  were  every 
thing  to  me,  everything !  If  I  had  taught 
myself  to  make  allowances  for  you,  if  I 
had  seen  things  to  forgive  in  you,  what  you 
told  me  would  have  been  only  one  thing 
more  and  I  might  have  forgiven.  But  all 
that  I  saw  in  you  I  loved,  Rowan,  and  I 
believed  that  I  saw  everything.  Remember 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       237 

this,  if  false  thoughts  of  me  ever  come  to 
you !  I  expect  to  live  a  long  time :  the 
memory  of  my  love  of  you  will  be  the  sor 
row  that  will  keep  me  alive." 

After  a  few  moments  of  silent  struggle 
she  moved  nearer. 

"  Do  not  touch  me/'  she  said ;  cc  and  re 
member  that  what  love  made  dear,  it  also 
made  sacred." 

She  put  out  a  hand  in  the  darkness  and, 
closing  her  eyes  over  welling  tears,  passed  it 
for  long  remembrance  over  his  features :  let 
ting  the  palm  lie  close  against  his  forehead 
with  her  fingers  in  his  hair ;  afterward  press 
ing  it  softly  over  his  eyes  and  passing  it 
around  his  neck.  Then  she  took  her  hand 
away  as  though  fearful  of  an  impulse.  Then 
she  put  her  hand  out  again  and  laid  her 
fingers  across  his  lips.  Then  she  took  her 
hand  away,  and  leaning  over,  touched  her  lips 
to  his  lips : 

"  Good-by  ! "  she  murmured  against  his 
face,  "  good-by  !  good-by  !  good-by  !  " 

Mrs.  Conyers  had  seen  Rowan  and  Isabel 


238        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

together  in  the  parlors  early  in  the  evening. 
She  had  seen  them,  late  in  the  evening,  quit 
the  house.  She  had  counted  the  minutes 
till  they  returned  and  she  had  marked  their 
agitation  as  they  parted.  The  closest  asso 
ciation  lasting  from  childhood  until  now  had 
convinced  her  of  the  straightforwardness  of 
Isabel's  character ;  and  the  events  of  the 
night  were  naturally  accepted  by  her  as  evi 
dences  of  the  renewal  of  relationship  with 
Rowan,  if  not  as  yet  of  complete  recon 
ciliation. 

She  herself  had  encountered  during  the 
evening  unexpected  slights  and  repulses. 
Her  hostesses  had  been  cool,  but  she  ex 
pected  them  to  be  cool :  they  did  not  like 
her  nor  she  them.  But  Judge  Morris  had 
avoided  her  ;  the  Hardages  had  avoided  her  ; 
each  member  of  the  Meredith  family  had 
avoided  her;  Isabel  had  avoided  her;  even 
Harriet,  when  once  she  crossed  the  rooms 
to  her,  had  with  an  incomprehensible  flare 
of  temper  turned  her  back  and  sought  refuge 
with  Miss  Anna.  She  was  very  angry. 

But   overbalancing  the  indignities  of  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       239 

evening  was  now  this  supreme  joy  of  Isabel's 
return  to  what  she  believed  to  be  Isabel's 
destiny.  She  sent  her  grandson  home  that 
she  might  have  the  drive  with  the  girl  alone. 
When  Isabel,  upon  entering  the  carriage,  her 
head  and  eyes  closely  muffled  in  her  shawl, 
had  withdrawn  as  far  as  possible  into  one 
corner  and  remained  silent  on  the  way,  she 
refrained  from  intrusion,  believing  that  she 
understood  the  emotions  dominating  her  be 
havior. 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  door.  She 
got  out  quickly  and  passed  to  her  room  — 
with  a  motive  of  her  own. 

Isabel  lingered.  She  ascended  the  steps 
without  conscious  will.  At  the  top  she  missed 
her  shawl :  it  had  become  entangled  in  the 
fringe  of  a  window  strap,  had  slipped  from 
her  bare  shoulders  as  she  set  her  foot  on  the 
pavement,  and  now  lay  in  the  track  of  the 
carriage  wheels.  As  she  picked  it  up,  an 
owl  flew  viciously  close  to  her  face.  What 
memories,  what  memories  came  back  to  her ! 
With  a  shiver  she  went  over  to  a  frame- 
like  opening  in  the  foliage  on  one  side  of  the 


240        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

veranda  and  stood  looking' toward  the  hori 
zon  where  the  moon  had  sunk  on  that  other 
night  —  that  first  night  of  her  sorrow.  How 
long  it  was  since  then ! 

At  any  other  time  she  would  have  dreaded 
the  parting  which  must  take  place  with  her 
grandmother:  now  what  a  little  matter  it 
seemed ! 

As  she  tapped  and  opened  the  door,  she 
put  her  hand  quickly  before  her  eyes,  blinded 
by  the  flood  of  light  which  streamed  out  into 
the  dark  hall.  Every  gas-jet  was  turned  on 
—  around  the  walls,  in  the  chandelier ;  and 
under  the  chandelier  stood  her  grandmother, 
waiting,  her  eyes  fixed  expectantly  on  the 
door,  her  countenance  softened  with  return 
ing  affection,  the  fire  of  triumph  in  her  eyes. 

She  had  unclasped  from  around  her  neck 
the  diamond  necklace  of  old  family  jewels, 
and  held  it  in  the  pool  of  her  rosy  palms,  as 
though  it  were  a  mass  of  clear  separate  rain 
drops  rainbow-kindled.  It  was  looped  about 
the  tips  of  her  two  upright  thumbs ;  part  of 
it  had  slipped  through  the  palms  and  flashed 
like  a  pendent  arc  of  light  below. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       241 

The  necklace  was  an  heirloom ;  it  had 
started  to  grow  in  England  of  old  ;  it  had 
grown  through  the  generations  of  the  family 
in  the  New  World. 

It  had  begun  as  a  ring  —  given  with  the 
plighting  of  troth  ;  it  had  become  ear-rings ; 
it  had  become  a  pendant ;  it  had  become  a 
tiara ;  it  had  become  part  of  a  necklace ;  it 
had  become  a  necklace  —  completed  circlet 
of  many  hopes. 

As  Isabel  entered  Mrs.  Conyers  started 
forward,  smiling,  to  clasp  it  around  her  neck 
as  the  expression  of  her  love  and  pleasure ; 
then  she  caught  sight  of  Isabel's  face,  and 
with  parted  lips  she  stood  still. 

Isabel,  white,  listless,  had  sunk  into  the 
nearest  chair,  and  now  said,  quietly  and 
wearily,  noticing  nothing : 

"  Grandmother,  do  not  get  up  to  see  me 
off  in  the  morning.  My  trunk  is  packed ; 
the  others  are  already  at  the  station.  All  my 
arrangements  are  made.  I'll  say  good-by 
to  you  now,"  and  she  stood  up. 

Mrs.  Conyers  stood  looking  at  her. 
Gradually  a  change  passed  over  her  face ; 


242        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

her  eyes  grew  dull,  the  eyelids  narrowed 
upon  the  balls ;  the  round  jaws  relaxed ; 
and  instead  of  the  smile,  hatred  came  mys 
teriously  out  and  spread  itself  rapidly  over 
her  features  :  true  horrible  revelation.  Her 
fingers  tightened  and  loosened  about  the 
necklace  until  it  was  forced  out  through 
them,  until  it  glided,  crawled,  as  though  it 
were  alive  and  were  being  strangled  and  were 
writhing.  She  spoke  with  entire  quietness : 

"  After  all  that  I  have  seen  to-night,  are 
you  not  going  to  marry  Rowan  ?  " 

Isabel  stirred  listlessly  as  with  remem 
brance  of  a  duty  : 

"  I  had  forgotten,  grandmother,  that  I  owe 
you  an  explanation.  I  found,  after  all,  that 
I  should  have  to  see  Rowan  again :  there  was 
a  matter  about  which  I  was  compelled  to 
speak  with  him.  That  is  all  I  meant  by  be 
ing  with  him  to-night :  everything  now  is 
ended  between  us/' 

"  And  you  are  going  away  without  giving 
me  the  reason  of  all  this  ? " 

Isabel  gathered  her  gloves  and  shawl  to 
gether  and  said  with  simple  distaste : 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       243 

"Yes." 

As  she  did  so,  Mrs.  Conyers,  suddenly 
beside  herself  with  aimless  rage,  raised  one 
arm  and  hurled  the  necklace  against  the  op 
posite  wall  of  the  room.  It  leaped  a  tangled 
braid  through  the  air  and  as  it  struck  burst 
asunder,  and  the  stones  scattered  and  rattled 
along  the  floor  and  rolled  far  out  on  the 
carpet. 

She  turned  and  putting  up  a  little  white 
arm,  which  shook  as  though  palsied,  began 
to  extinguish  the  lights.  Isabel  watched  her 
a  moment  remorsefully  : 

"  Good  night,  grandmother,  and  good-by. 
I  am  sorry  to  go  away  and  leave  you  angry." 

As  she  entered  her  room,  gray  light  was 
already  creeping  in  through  the  windows, 
left  open  to  the  summer  night.  She  went 
mournfully  to  her  trunk.  The  tray  had  been 
lifted  out  and  placed  upon  a  chair  near  by. 
The  little  tops  to  the  divisions  of  the  tray 
were  all  thrown  back,  and  she  could  see 
that  the  last  thing  had  been  packed  into  its 
place.  Her  hand  satchel  was  open  on  her 
bureau,  and  she  could  see  the  edge  of  a  hand- 


244        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

kerchief  and  the  little  brown  wicker  neck 
of  a  cologne  bottle.  Beside  the  hand  sat 
chel  were  her  purse,  baggage  checks,  and 
travelling  ticket :  everything  was  in  readiness. 
She  looked  at  it  all  a  long  time  : 

"  How  can  I  go  away  ?  How  can  I,  how 
can  I ?  " 

She  went  over  to  her  bed.  The  sheet  had 
been  turned  down,  the  pillow  dented  for  her 
face.  Beside  the  pillow  was  a  tiny  reading- 
stand  and  on  this  was  a  candle  and  a  book  — 
with  thought  of  her  old  habit  of  reading 
after  she  had  come  home  from  pleasures  like 
those  of  to-night  —  when  they  were  pleasures. 
Beside  the  book  her  maid  had  set  a  little  cut- 
glass  vase  of  blossoms  which  had  opened 
since  she  put  them  there  —  were  just  open 
ing  now. 

"  How  can  I  read  ?     How  can  I  sleep  ?  " 

She  crossed  to  a  large  window  opening 
on  the  lawn  in  the  rear  of  the  house  —  and 
looked  for  the  last  time  out  at  the  gray  old 
pines  and  dim  blue,  ever  wintry  firs.  Beyond 
were  house-tops  and  tree-tops  of  the  town  ; 
and  beyond  these  lay  the  country — stretching 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       245 

away  to  his  home.  Soon  the  morning  light 
would  be  crimsoning  the  horizon  before  his 
window. 

"How  can  I  stay?"  she  said.  "How 
can  I  bear  to  stay  ?  " 

She  recalled  her  last  words  to  him  as  they 
parted : 

"  Remember  that  you  are  forgotten  J  " 

She  recalled  his  reply : 

"  Forget  that  you  are  remembered  !  " 

She  sank  down  on  the  floor  and  crossed 
her  arms  on  the  window  sill  and  buried  her 
face  on  her  arms.  The  white  dawn  ap 
proached,  touched  her,  and  passed,  and  she 
did  not  heed. 


PART   SECOND 


I 


THE  home  of  the  Merediths  lay  in  a 
region  of  fertile  lands  adapted  alike  to  tillage 
and  to  pasturage.  The  immediate  neighbor 
hood  was  old,  as  civilization  reckons  age  in 
the  United  States,  and  was  well  conserved. 
It  held  in  high  esteem  its  traditions  of  itself, 
approved  its  own  customs,  was  proud  of  its 
prides  :  a  characteristic  community  of  coun 
try  gentlemen  at  the  side  of  each  of  whom  a 
characteristic  lady  lived  and  had  her  peculiar 
being. 

The  ownership  of  the  soil  had  long  since 
passed  into  the  hands  of  capable  families  — 
with  this  exception,  that  here  and  there  be 
tween  the  borders  of  large  estates  little  farms 
were  to  be  found  representing  all  that  re 
mained  from  slow  processes  of  partition  and 
absorption.  These  scant  freeholds  had  thus 
their  pathos,  marking  as  they  did  the  losing 
fight  of  successive  holders  against  more  for- 
249 


250       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

tunate,  more  powerful  neighbors.  Nothing 
in  its  way  records  more  surely  the  clash  and 
struggle  and  ranking  of  men  than  the  boun 
daries  of  land.  There  you  see  extinction 
and  survival,  the  perpetual  going  under  of 
the  weak,  the  perpetual  overriding  of  the 
strong. 

Two  such  fragmentary  farms  lay  on  op 
posite  sides  of  the  Meredith  estate.  One 
was  the  property  of  Ambrose  Webb,  a  mar 
ried  but  childless  man  who,  thus  exempt 
from  necessity  of  raking  the  earth  for  swarm 
ing  progeny,  had  sown  nearly  all  his  land  in 
grass  and  rented  it  as  pasturage  :  no  crops 
of  children,  no  crops  of  grain. 

The  other  farm  was  of  less  importance. 
Had  you  ridden  from  the  front  door  of  the 
Merediths  northward  for  nearly  a  mile,  you 
would  have  reached  the  summit  of  a  slope 
sweeping  a  wide  horizon.  Standing  on  this 
summit  any  one  of  these  bright  summer 
days,  you  could  have  seen  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope,  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  on 
the  steep  opposite  side,  a  rectangle  of  land 
covering  some  fifty  acres.  It  lay  crumpled 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       251 

into  a  rough  depression  in  the  landscape. 
A  rivulet  of  clear  water  by  virtue  of  indomi 
table  crook  and  turn  made  its  way  across  this 
valley ;  a  woodland  stood  in  one  corner, 
nearly  all  its  timber  felled ;  there  were  a  few 
patches  of  grain  so  small  that  they  made  you 
think  of  the  variegated  peasant  strips  of 
agricultural  France ;  and  a  few  lots  smaller 
still  around  a  stable.  The  buildings  huddled 
confusedly  into  this  valley  seemed  to  have 
backed  toward  each  other  like  a  flock  of 
sheep,  encompassed  by  peril  and  making  a 
last  stand  in  futile  defence  of  their  right  to 
exist  at  all. 

What  held  the  preeminence  of  castle  in 
the  collection  of  structures  was  a  small  brick 
house  with  one  upper  bedroom.  The  front 
entrance  had  no  porch ;  and  beneath  the 
door,  as  stepping-stones  of  entrance,  lay  two 
circular  slabs  of  wood  resembling  sausage 
blocks,  one  half  superposed.  Over  the  door 
was  a  trellis  of  gourd  vines  now  profusely 
blooming  and  bee-visited.  Grouped  around 
this  castle  in  still  lower  feudal  and  vital  de 
pendence  was  a  log  cabin  of  one  room  and  of 


252        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

many  more  gourd  vines,  an  ice-house,  a  house 
for  fowls,  a  stable,  a  rick  for  hay,  and  a  sag 
ging  shed  for  farm  implements. 

If  the  appearance  of  the  place  suggested 
the  struggles  of  a  family  on  the  verge  of  ex 
tinction,  this  idea  was  further  borne  out  by 
what  looked  like  its  determination  to  stand 
a  long  final  siege  at  least  in  the  matter  of 
rations,  for  it  swarmed  with  life.  In  the 
quiet  crystalline  air  from  dawn  till  after 
sunset  the  sounds  arising  from  it  were  the 
clamor  of  a  sincere,  outspoken  multitude  of 
what  man  calls  the  dumb  creatures.  Evi 
dently  some  mind,  full  of  energy  and  fore 
thought,  had  made  its  appearance  late  in  the 
history  of  these  failing  generations  and  had 
begun  a  fight  to  reverse  failure  and  turn 
back  the  tide  of  aggression.  As  the  first 
step  in  self-recovery  this  rugged  island  of 
poverty  must  be  made  self-sustaining. 
Therefore  it  had  been  made  to  teem  with 
animal  and  vegetable  plenty. 

On  one  side  of  the  house  lay  an  orderly 
garden  of  vegetables  and  berry-bearing 
shrubs ;  the  yard  itself  was  in  reality  an 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       253 

orchard  of  fruit  trees,  some  warmed  by  the 
very  walls  ;  under  the  shed  there  were  bee- 
gums  alive  with  the  nectar  builders  ;  along 
the  garden  walks  were  frames  for  freighted 
grape-vines.  The  work  of  regeneration  had 
been  pushed  beyond  the  limits  of  utilitarian 
ism  over  into  a  certain  crude  domain  of 
aesthetics.  On  one  front  window-sill  what  had 
been  the  annual  Christmas  box  of  raisins  had 
been  turned  into  a  little  hot-bed  of  flowering 
plants ;  and  under  the  panes  of  glass  a  dense 
forest  of  them,  sun-drawn,  looked  like  a 
harvest  field  swept  by  a  storm.  On  the 
opposite  window  ledge  an  empty  drum  of 
figs  was  now  topped  with  hardy  jump-up- 
johnnies.  It  bore  some  resemblance  to  an 
enormous  yellow  muffin  stuffed  with  blue 
berries.  In  the  garden  big-headed  peonies 
here  and  there  fell  over  upon  the  young 
onions.  The  entire  demesne  lay  white  and 
green  with  tidiness  under  yellow  sun  and 
azure  sky ;  for  fences  and  outhouses,  even 
the  trunks  of  trees  several  feet  up  from  the 
ground,  glistened  with  whitewash.  So  that 
everywhere  was  seen  the  impress  and  guid- 


254       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

ance  of  a  spirit  evoking  abundance,  order, 
even  beauty,  out  of  what  could  so  easily 
have  been  squalor  and  despondent  wretched 
ness. 

This  was  the  home  of  Pansy  Vaughan  ; 
and  Pansy  was  the  explanation  of  everything 
beautiful  and  fruitful,  the  peaceful  Joan  of 
Arc  of  that  valley,  seeing  rapt  visions  of  the 
glory  of  her  people. 

In  the  plain  upper  room  of  the  plain 
brick  house,  on  her  hard  white  bed  with  her 
hard  white  thoughts,  lay  Pansy — sleepless 
throughout  the  night  of  Marguerite's  ball. 
The  youngest  of  the  children  slept  beside 
her  ;  two  others  lay  in  a  trundle-bed  across 
the  room  ;  and  the  three  were  getting  out  of 
sleep  all  that  there  is  in  it  for  tired,  healthy 
children.  In  the  room  below,  her  father 
and  the  eldest  boy  were  resting  ;  and  through 
the  rafters  of  the  flooring  she  could  hear 
them  both  :  her  father  a  large,  fluent,  well- 
seasoned,  self-comforting  bassoon ;  and  her 
brother  a  sappy,  inexperienced  bassoon  try 
ing  to  imitate  it.  Wakefulness  was  a  novel 
state  for  Pansy  herself,  who  was  always  tired 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       255 

when  bedtime  came  and  as  full  of  wild 
vitality  as  one  of  her  young  guineas  in  the 
summer  wheat ;  so  that  she  sank  into  slumber 
as  a  rock  sinks  into  the  sea,  descending  till  it 
reaches  the  unstirred  bottom. 

What  kept  her  awake  to-night  was  morti 
fication  that  she  had  not  been  invited  to  the 
ball.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  was 
not  entitled  to  an  invitation,  since  the  three 
Marguerites  had  never  heard  of  her.  She 
had  never  been  to  a  fashionable  party  even 
in  the  country.  But  her  engagement  to 
Dent  Meredith  already  linked  her  to  him 
socially  and  she  felt  the  tugging  of  those 
links  :  what  were  soon  to  become  her  rights 
had  begun  to  be  her  rights  already.  An 
other  little  thing  troubled  her :  she  had  no 
flower  to  send  him  for  his  button-hole,  to 
accompany  her  note  wishing  him  a  pleasant 
evening.  She  could  not  bear  to  give  him 
anything  common ;  and  Pansy  believed  that 
no  one  was  needed  to  tell  her  what  a  com 
mon  thing  is. 

For  a  third  reason  slumber  refused  to 
descend  and  weigh  down  her  eyelids  :  on  the 


256        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

morrow  she  was  to  call  upon  Dent's  mother, 
and  the  thought  of  this  call  preoccupied  her 
with  terror.  She  was  one  of  the  bravest  of 
souls ;  but  the  terror  which  shook  her  was 
the  terror  that  shakes  them  all  —  terror  lest 
they  be  not  loved. 

All  her  life  she  had  looked  with  awe  up 
ward  out  of  her  valley  toward  that  great 
house.  Its  lawns  with  stately  clumps  of 
evergreens,  its  many  servants,  its  distant 
lights  often  seen  twinkling  in  the  windows 
at  night,  the  tales  that  reached  her  of  won 
derful  music  and  faery  dancing ;  the  flashing 
family  carriages  which  had  so  often  whirled 
past  her  on  the  turnpike  with  scornful 
footman  and  driver  —  all  these  recollections 
revisited  her  to-night.  In  the  morning 
she  was  to  cross  the  boundary  of  this  inac 
cessible  world  as  one  who  was  to  hold  a  high 
position  in  it. 

How  pictures  came  crowding  back  !  One 
of  the  earliest  recollections  of  childhood  was 
hearing  the  scream  of  the  Meredith  peacocks 
as  they  drew  their  gorgeous  plumage  across 
the  silent  summer  lawns  ;  at  home  they  had 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       257 

nothing  better  than  fussing  guineas.  She 
had  never  come  nearer  to  one  of  those  proud 
birds  than  handling  a  set  of  tail  feathers 
which  Mrs.  Meredith  had  presented  to  her 
mother  for  a  family  fly  brush.  Pansy  had 
good  reason  to  remember  because  she  had 
often  been  required  to  stand  beside  the 
table  and,  one  little  bare  foot  set  alter 
nately  on  the  other  little  bare  foot,  wield 
the  brush  over  the  dishes  till  arms  and 
eyelids  ached. 

Another  of  those  dim  recollections  was 
pressing  her  face  against  the  window-panes 
when  the  first  snow  began  to  fall  on  the 
scraggy  cedars  in  the  yard ;  and  as  she  began 
to  sing  softly  to  herself  one  of  the  ancient 
ditties  of  the  children  of  the  poor,  "  Old 
Woman,  picking  Geese,"  she  would  dream 
of  the  magical  flowers  which  they  told  her 
bloomed  all  winter  in  a  glass  house  at  the 
Merediths'  while  there  was  ice  on  the  pines 
outside.  Big  red  roses  and  icicles  separated 
only  by  a  thin  glass  —  she  could  hardly  be 
lieve  it ;  and  she  would  cast  her  eye  toward 
their  own  garden  where  a  few  black  withered 


258        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

stalks  marked  the  early  death-beds  of  the 
pinks  and  jonquils. 

But  even  in  those  young  years  Pansy  had 
little  time  to  look  out  of  windows  and  to 
dream  of  anything.  She  must  help,  she 
must  work ;  for  she  was  the  oldest  of  five 
children,  and  the  others  followed  so  closely 
that  they  pushed  her  out  of  her  garments. 
A  hardy,  self-helpful  child  life,  bravened  by 
necessities,  never  undermined  by  luxuries. 
For  very  dolls  Pansy  used  small  dried 
gourds,  taking  the  big  round  end  of  the 
gourd  for  the  head  of  the  doll  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  gourd  for  all  the  rest  of  the  body. 

One  morning  when  she  was  fourteen,  the 
other  children  were  clinging  with  tears  to  her 
in  a  poor,  darkened  room  —  she  to  be  little 
mother  to  them  henceforth  :  they  never 
clung  in  vain. 

That  same  autumn  when  woods  were 
turning  red  and  wild  grapes  turning  black 
and  corn  turning  yellow,  a  cherished  rockaway 
drawn  by  a  venerated  horse,  that  tried  to 
stop  for  conversation  on  the  highroad  when 
ever  he  passed  a  neighbor's  vehicle,  rattled 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       259 

out  on  the  turnpike  with  five  children  in  it 
and  headed  for  town  :  Pansy  driving,  taking 
herself  and  the  rest  to  the  public  school. 
For  years  thereafter,  through  dark  and  bright 
days,  she  conveyed  that  nest  of  hungry  fledg 
lings  back  and  forth  over  bitter  and  weary 
miles,  getting  their  ravenous  minds  fed  at  one 
end  of  the  route,  and  their  ravenous  bodies 
fed  at  the  other.  If  the  harness  broke, 
Pansy  got  out  with  a  string.  If  the  horse 
dropped  a  shoe,  or  dropped  himself,  Pansy 
picked  up  what  she  could.  In  town  she 
drove  to  the  blacksmith  shop  and  to  all 
other  shops  whither  business  called  her. 
Her  friends  were  the  blacksmith  and  the 
tollgate  keeper,  her  teachers  —  all  who  knew 
her  and  they  were  few :  she  had  no  time  for 
friendships.  At  home  the  only  frequent 
visitor  was  Ambrose  Webb,  and  Pansy  did 
not  care  for  Ambrose.  The  first  time  she 
remembered  seeing  him  at  dinner,  she  —  a 
very  little  girl  —  had  watched  his  throat  with 
gloomy  fascination.  Afterward  her  mother 
told  her  he  had  an  Adam's  apple ;  and 
Pansy,  working  obscurely  at  some  problem 


2.6 o       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  theology,  had  secretly  taken  down  the 
Bible  and  read  the  story  of  Adam  and  the 
fearful  fruit.  Ambrose  became  associated 
in  her  mind  with  the  Fall  of  Man  ;  she  dis 
liked  the  proximity. 

No  time  for  friendships.  Besides  the 
labors  at  school,  there  was  the  nightly  care 
of  her  father  on  her  return,  the  mending  of 
his  clothes  ;  there  was  the  lonely  burning  of 
her  candle  far  into  the  night  as  she  toiled 
over  lessons.  When  she  had  learned  all 
that  could  be  taught  her  at  the  school,  she 
left  the  younger  children  there  and  victori 
ously  transferred  herself  for  a  finishing  course 
to  a  seminary  of  the  town,  where  she  was  now 
proceeding  to  graduate. 

This  was  Pansy,  child  of  plain,  poor, 
farmer  folk,  immemorially  dwelling  close 
to  the  soil ;  unlettered,  unambitious,  long- 
lived,  abounding  in  children,  without  physi 
cal  beauty,  but  marking  the  track  of  their 
generations  by  a  path  lustrous  with  right- 
doing.  For  more  than  a  hundred  years  on 
this  spot  the  land  had  lessened  around 
them ;  but  the  soil  had  worked  upward  into 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       261 

their  veins,  as  into  the  stalks  of  plants,  the 
trunks  of  trees ;  and  that  clean,  thrilling  sap 
of  the  earth,  that  vitality  of  the  exhaustless 
mother  which  never  goes  for  nothing,  had 
produced  one  heavenly  flower  at  last  — 
shooting  forth  with  irrepressible  energy  a 
soul  unspoiled  and  morally  sublime.  When 
the  top  decays,  as  it  always  does  in  the  lapse 
of  time,  whence  shall  come  regeneration  if 
not  from  below  ?  It  is  the  plain  people 
who  are  the  eternal  breeding  grounds  of 
high  destinies. 

In  the  long  economy  of  nature,  this,  per 
haps,  was  the  meaning  and  the  mission  of 
this  lofty  child  who  now  lay  sleepless,  shaken 
to  the  core  with  thoughts  of  the  splendid 
world  over  into  which  she  was  to  journey 
to-morrow. 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning  she  set  out. 

It  had  been  a  question  with  her  whether 
she  should  go  straight  across  the  fields  and 
climb  the  fences,  or  walk  around  by  the 
turnpike  and  open  the  gates.  Her  prefer 
ence  was  for  fields  and  fences,  because  that 


262        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

was  the  short  and  direct  way,  and  Pansy  was 
used  to  the  short  and  direct  way  of  getting 
to  the  end  of  her  desires.  But,  as  has  been 
said,  she  had  already  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
considering  what  was  due  her  and  becoming 
to  her  as  a  young  Mrs.  Meredith  ;  and  it 
struck  her  that  this  lady  would  not  climb 
field  fences,  at  least  by  preference  and  with 
facility.  Therefore  she  chose  the  highroad, 
gates,  dust,  and  dignity. 

It  could  scarcely  be  said  that  she  was 
becomingly  raimented.  Pansy  made  her 
own  dresses,  and  the  dresses  declared  the 
handiwork  of  their  maker.  The  one  she 
wore  this  morning  was  chiefly  characterized 
by  a  pair  of  sleeves  designed  by  herself; 
from  the  elbow  to  the  wrist  there  hung  green 
pouches  that  looked  like  long  pea-pods  not 
well  filled.  Her  only  ornament  was  a  large 
oval  pin  at  her  throat  which  had  somewhat 
the  same  relation  to  a  cameo  as  that  borne  by 
Wedgwood  china.  It  represented  a  white 
horse  drinking  at  a  white  roadside  well ; 
beside  the  shoulder  of  the  horse  stood  a 
white  angel,  many  times  taller,  with  an  arm 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       263 

thrown  caressingly  around  the  horse's  neck ; 
while  a  stunted  forest  tree  extended  a  solitary 
branch  over  the  horse's  tail. 

She  had  been  oppressed  with  dread  that 
she  should  not  arrive  in  time.  No  time  had 
been  set,  no  one  knew  that  she  v/as  coming, 
and  the  forenoons  were  long.  Nevertheless 
impatience  to  encounter  Mrs.  Meredith  con 
sumed  her ;  and  once  on  the  way,  inasmuch  as 
Pansy  usually  walked  as  though  she  had  been 
told  to  go  for  the  doctor,  but  not  to  run,  she 
was  not  long  in  arriving. 

When  she  reached  the  top  of  the  drive  in 
front  of  the  Meredith  homestead,  her  face, 
naturally  colorless,  was  a  consistent  red  ;  and 
her  heart,  of  whose  existence  she  had  never 
in  her  life  been  reminded,  was  beating  audi 
bly.  Although  she  said  to  herself  that  it  was 
bad  manners,  she  shook  out  her  handkerchief, 
which  she  had  herself  starched  and  ironed 
with  much  care ;  and  gathering  her  skirts 
aside,  first  to  the  right  and  then  to  the 
left,  dusted  her  shoes,  lifting  each  a  little 
into  the  air,  and  she  pulled  some  grass  from 
around  the  buttons.  'vWith  the  other  half 


264       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  her  handkerchief  she  wiped  her  brow; 
but  a  fresh  bead  of  perspiration  instantly 
appeared ;  a  few  drops  even  stood  on  her 
dilated  nostrils  —  raindrops  on  the  eaves. 
Even  had  the  day  been  cool  she  must  have 
been  warm,  for  she  wore  more  layers  of  cloth 
ing  than  usual,  having  deposited  some  fresh 
strata  in  honor  of  her  wealthy  mother-in-law. 
As  Pansy  stepped  from  behind  the  pines, 
with  one  long,  quivering  breath  of  final  self- 
adjustment,  she  suddenly  stood  still,  arrested 
by  the  vision  of  so  glorious  a  hue  and  shape 
that,  for  the  moment,  everything  else  was 
forgotten.  On  the  pavement  just  before 
her,  as  though  to  intercept  her  should  she 
attempt  to  cross  the  Meredith  threshold, 
stood  a  peacock,  expanding  to  the  utmost 
its  great  fan  of  pride  and  love.  It  confronted 
her  with  its  high-born  composure  and  inso 
lent  grace,  all  its  jewelled  feathers  flashing  in 
the  sun ;  then  with  a  little  backward  move 
ment  of  its  royal  head  and  convulsion  of  its 
breast,  it  threw  out  its  cry,  —  the  cry  she  had 
heard  in  the  distance  through  dreaming  years, 
—  warning  all  who  heard  that  she  was  there, 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       265 

the  intruder.  Then  lowering  its  tail  and  draw 
ing  its  plumage  in  fastidiously  against  the 
body,  it  crossed  her  path  in  an  evasive  circle 
and  disappeared  behind  the  pines. 

"  Oh,  Dent,  why  did  you  ever  ask  me  to 
marry  you  !  "  thought  Pansy,  in  a  moment 
of  soul  failure. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  sitting  on  the  veranda 
and  was  partly  concealed  by  a  running  rose. 
She  was  not  expecting  visitors ;  she  had 
much  to  think  of  this  morning,  and  she  rose 
wonderingly  and  reluctantly  as  Pansy  came 
forward :  she  did  not  know  who  it  was,  and 
she  did  not  advance. 

Pansy  ascended  the  steps  and  paused,  look 
ing  with  wistful  eyes  at  the  great  lady  who 
was  to  be  her  mother,  but  who  did  not  even 
greet  her. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  she  said, 
in  a  shrill  treble,  holding  herself  somewhat  in 
the  attitude  of  a  wooden  soldier,  "  I  suppose  I 
shall  have  to  introduce  myself:  it  is  Pansy." 

The  surprise  faded  from  Mrs.  Meredith's 
face,  the  reserve  melted.  With  outstretched 
hands  she  advanced  smiling. 


266       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  How  do  you  do,  Pansy/*  she  said  with 
motherly  gentleness ;  "  it  is  very  kind  of 
you  to  come  and  see  me,  and  I  am  very 
glad  to  know  you.  Shall  we  go  in  where 
it  is  cooler  ?  " 

They  entered  the  long  hall.  Near  the  door 
stood  a  marble  bust :  each  wall  was  lined  with 
portraits.  She  passed  between  Dent's  ances 
tors  into  the  large  darkened  parlors. 

"  Sit  here,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mere 
dith,  and  she  even  pushed  gently  forward 
the  most  luxurious  chair  within  her  reach. 
To  Pansy  it  seemed  large  enough  to  hold 
all  the  children.  At  home  she  was  used  to 
chairs  that  were  not  only  small,  but  hard. 
Wherever  the  bottom  of  a  chair  seemed  to 
be  in  that  household,  there  it  was  —  if  it  was 
anywhere.  Actuated  now  by  this  lifelong 
faith  in  literal  furniture,  she  sat  down  with 
the  utmost  determination  where  she  was  bid  ; 
but  the  bottom  offered  no  resistance  to  her 
descending  weight  and  she  sank.  She  threw 
out  her  hands  and  her  hat  tilted  over  her 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  en 
closed  up  to  her  neck  in  what  might  have 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       267 

been  a  large  morocco  bath-tub  —  which  came 
to  an  end  at  her  knees.  She  pushed  back 
her  hat,  crimson. 

"  That  was  a  surprise,"  she  said,  frankly 
admitting  the  fault,  "  but  there'll  never  be 
another  such." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  found  it  warm  walking, 
Pansy,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  opening  her 
fan  and  handing  it  to  her. 

"  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Meredith,  I  never  fan  ! " 
said  Pansy,  declining  breathlessly.  "  I  have 
too  much  use  for  my  hands.  I'd  rather 
suffer  and  do  something  else.  Besides,  you 
know  I  am  used  to  walking  in  the  sun.  I 
am  very  fond  of  botany,  and  I  am  out  of 
doors  for  hours  at  a  time  when  I  can  find 
the  chance." 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  delighted  at  the  op 
portunity  to  make  easy  vague  comment  on  a 
harmless  subject. 

"  What  a  beautiful  study  it  must  be,"  she 
said  with  authority. 

"  Must  be  !  "  exclaimed  Pansy  ;  "  why, 
Mrs.  Meredith,  don't  you  know  ?  Don't 
you  understand  botany  ?  " 


268        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Pansy  had  an  idea  that  in  Dent's  home 
botany  was  as  familiarly  apprehended  as  peas 
and  turnips  in  hers. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Meredith, 
a  little  coolly.  Her  mission  had  been  to 
adorn  and  people  the  earth,  not  to  study  it. 
And  among  persons  of  her  acquaintance  it 
was  the  prime  duty  of  each  not  to  lay  bare 
the  others'  ignorance,  but  to  make  a  little 
knowledge  appear  as  great  as  possible.  It 
was  discomfiting  to  have  Pansy  charge 
upon  what  after  all  was  only  a  vacant  spot 
in  her  mind.  She  added,  as  defensively 
intimating  that  the  subject  had  another 
dangerous  side : 

"  When  I  was  a  girl,  young  ladies  at 
school  did  not  learn  much  botany ;  but 
they  paid  a  great  deal  of  attention  to  their 
manners." 

"  Why  did  not  they  learn  it  after  they  had 
left  school  and  after  they  had  learned  man 
ners?"  inquired  Pansy,  with  ruthless  enthu 
siasm.  "  It  is  such  a  mistake  to  stop  learning 
everything  simply  because  you  have  stopped 
school.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       269 

"  When  a  girl  marries,  my  dear,  she  soon 
has  other  studies  to  take  up.  She  has  a 
house  and  husband.  The  girls  of  my  day, 
I  am  afraid,  gave  up  their  botanies  for  their 
duties  :  it  may  be  different  now." 

"  No  matter  how  many  children  I  may 
have,"  said  Pansy,  positively,  "  I  shall  never 
— give — up — botany!  Besides,  you  know, 
Mrs.  Meredith,  that  we  study  botany  only 
during  the  summer  months,  and  I  do 
hope  —  "  she  broke  off  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Meredith  smoothed  her  dress  ner 
vously  and  sought  to  find  her  chair  com 
fortable. 

"Your  mother  named  you  Pansy,"  she 
remarked,  taking  a  gloomy  view  of  the  pres 
ent  moment  and  of  the  whole  future  of  this 
acquaintanceship. 

That  this  should  be  the  name  of  a  woman 
was  to  her  a  mistake,  a  crime.  Her  sense 
of  fitness  demanded  that  names  should  be 
given  to  infants  with  reference  to  their  adult 
characters  and  eventual  positions  in  life.  She 
liked  her  own  name  "  Caroline  "  ;  and  she 
liked  "  Margaret "  and  all  such  womanly, 


270       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

motherly,  dignified,  stately  appellatives.  As 
for  "Pansy,"  it  had  been  the  name  of  one  of 
her  husband's  shorthorns,  a  premium  animal 
at  the  county  fairs  ;  the  silver  cup  was  on  the 
sideboard  in  the  dining  room  now. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  replied  Pansy, 
"  that  was  the  name  my  mother  gave  me.  I 
think  she  must  have  had  a  great  love  of 
flowers.  She  named  me  for  the  best  she 
had.  I  hope  I  shall  never  forget  that,"  and 
Pansy  looked  at  Mrs.  Meredith  with  a  face 
of  such  gravity  and  pride  that  silence  lasted 
in  the  parlors  for  a  while. 

Buried  in  Pansy's  heart  was  one  secret, 
one  sorrow :  that  her  mother  had  been  poor. 
Her  father  wore  his  yoke  ungalled ;  he 
loved  rough  work,  drew  his  religion  from 
privations,  accepted  hardship  as  the  chasten 
ing  that  insures  reward.  But  that  her 
mother's  hands  should  have  been  folded  and 
have  returned  to  universal  clay  without  ever 
having  fondled  the  finer  things  of  life  —  this 
to  Pansy  was  remembrance  to  start  tears  on 
the  brightest  day. 

"  I    think    she    named    you    beautifully," 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       271 

said  Mrs.  Meredith,  breaking  that  silence, 
"and  I  am  glad  you  told  me,  Pansy." 
She  lingered  with  quick  approval  on  the 
name. 

But  she  turned  the  conversation  at  once 
to  less  personal  channels.  The  beauty  of 
the  country  at  this  season  seemed  to  offer 
her  an  inoffensive  escape.  She  felt  that  she 
could  handle  it  at  least  with  tolerable  discre 
tion.  She  realized  that  she  was  not  deep  on 
the  subject,  but  she  did  feel  fluent. 

"  I  suppose  you  take  the  same  pride  that 
we  all  do  in  such  a  beautiful  country." 

Sunlight  instantly  shone  out  on  Pansy's 
face.  Dent  was  a  geologist ;  and  since  she 
conceived  herself  to  be  on  trial  before  Mrs. 
Meredith  this  morning,  it  was  of  the  first 
importance  that  she  demonstrate  her  sym 
pathy  and  intelligent  appreciation  of  his  field 
of  work. 

"  Indeed  I  do  feel  the  greatest  pride 
in  it,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  she  replied.  "  I 
study  it  a  great  deal.  But  of  course  you 
know  perfectly  the  whole  formation  of  this 
region." 


272       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Mrs.  Meredith  coughed  with  frank  dis 
couragement. 

"  I  do  not  know  it,"  she  admitted  dryly. 
"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  know  it,  but  I  do  not. 
I  believe  school-teachers  understand  these 
things.  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  very  ignorant 
woman.  No  one  of  my  acquaintances  is 
very  learned.  We  are  not  used  to  scholar 
ship." 

"  I  know  all  the  strata,"  said  Pansy.  "  I 
tell  the  children  stories  of  how  the  Masto 
don  once  virtually  lived  in  our  stable,  and 
that  millions  of  years  ago  there  were  Ptero 
dactyls  under  their  bed." 

"  I  think  it  a  misfortune  for  a  young 
woman  to  have  much  to  say  to  children 
about  Pterodactyls  under  their  bed  —  is  that 
the  name  ?  Such  things  never  seem  to  have 
troubled  Solomon,  and  I  believe  he  was  re 
puted  wise."  She  did  not  care  for  the  old- 
fashioned  reference  herself,  but  she  thought 
it  would  affect  Pansy. 

"The  children  in  the  public  schools  know 
things  that  Solomon  never  heard  of,"  said 
Pansy,  contemptuously. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       273 

"I  do  not  doubt  it  in  the  least,  my  dear. 
I  believe  it  was  not  his  knowledge  that  made 
him  rather  celebrated,  but  his  wisdom.  But 
I  am  not  up  in  Solomon ! "  she  admitted 
hastily,  retreating  from  the  subject  in  new 
dismay. 

The  time  had  arrived  for  Pansy  to  depart ; 
but  she  reclined  in  her  morocco  alcove  with 
somewhat  the  stiffness  of  a  tilted  bottle  and 
somewhat  the  contour.  She  felt  extreme 
dissatisfaction  with  her  visit  and  reluctance 
to  terminate  it. 

Her  idea  of  the  difference  between  people 
in  society  and  other  people  was  that  it  hinged 
ornamentally  upon  inexhaustible  and  scanty 
knowledge.  If  Mrs.  Meredith  was  a  social 
leader,  and  she  herself  had  no  social  standing 
at  all,  it  was  mainly  because  that  lady  was  pub 
licly  recognized  as  a  learned  woman,  and  the 
world  had  not  yet  found  out  that  she  herself 
was  anything  but  ignorant.  Being  ignorant 
was  to  her  mind  the  quintessence  of  being 
common;  and  as  she  had  undertaken  this 
morning  to  prove  to  Dent's  mother  that  she 
was  not  common,  she  had  only  to  prove  that 


274       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

she  WES  learned.  For  days  she  had  pre 
pared  ur  this  interview  with  that  conception 
of  its  meaning.  She  had  converted  her  mind 
into  a  kind  of  rapid-firing  gun ;  she  had  con 
densed  her  knowledge  into  conversational 
cartridges.  No  sooner  had  she  taken  up  a 
mental  position  before  Mrs.  Meredith  than 
the  parlors  resounded  with  light,  rapid  detona 
tions  of  information.  That  lady  had  but  to 
release  the  poorest,  most  lifeless,  little  clay 
pigeon  of  a  remark  and  Pansy  shattered  it 
in  mid  air  and  refixed  suspicious  eyes  on 
the  trap. 

But  the  pigeons  soon  began  to  fly  less  fre 
quently.  And  finally  they  gave  out.  And 
now  she  must  take  nearly  all  her  cartridges 
home !  Mrs.  Meredith  would  think  her 
ignorant,  therefore  she  would  think  her 
common.  If  Pansy  had  only  known  what 
divine  dulness,  what  ambrosial  stupidity, 
often  reclines  on  those  Olympian  heights 
called  society  ! 

At  last  she  rose.  Neither  had  mentioned 
Dent's  name,  though  each  had  been  thinking 
of  him  all  the  time.  Not  a  word  had  been 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      275 

spoken  to  indicate  the  recognition  of  a  rela 
tionship  which  one  of  them  so  desired  and  the 
other  so  dreaded.  Pansy  might  merely  have 
hurried  over  to  ask  Mrs.  Meredith  for  the 
loan  of  an  ice-cream  freezer  or  for  a  setting 
of  eggs.  On  the  mother's  part  this  silence 
was  kindly  meant :  she  did  not  think  it 
right  to  take  for  granted  what  might  never 
come  to  pass.  Uppermost  in  her  mind  was 
the  cruelty  of  accepting  Pansy  as  her 
daughter-in-law  this  morning  with  the  possi 
bility  of  rejecting  her  afterward. 

As  Pansy  walked  reluctantly  out  into  the 
hall,  she  stopped  with  a  deep  wish  in  her 
candid  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Meredith,  I  should  so  much 
like  to  see  the  portrait  of  Dent's  father:  he 
has  often  spoken  to  me  about  it." 

Mrs.  Meredith  led  her  away  in  silence  to 
where  the  portrait  hung,  and  the  two  stood 
looking  at  it  side  by  side.  She  resisted  a 
slight  impulse  to  put  her  arm  around  the 
child.  When  they  returned  to  the  front  of 
the  house,  Pansy  turned : 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  ever  love  me  ?  " 


276       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

The  carriage  was  at  the  door.  "  You 
must  not  walk/'  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  "  the 
sun  is  too  hot  now." 

As  Pansy  stepped  into  the  carriage,  she 
cast  a  suspicious  glance  at  the  cushions : 
Meredith  upholstery  was  not  to  be  trusted, 
and  she  seated  herself  warily. 

Mrs.  Meredith  put  her  hand  through  the 
window :  "  You  must  come  to  see  me  soon 
again,  Pansy.  I  am  a  poor  visitor,  but  I 
shall  try  to  call  on  you  in  a  few  days." 

She  went  back  to  her  seat  on  the  veranda. 

It  has  been  said  that  her  insight  into  good 
ness  was  her  strength ;  she  usually  had  a  way 
of  knowing  at  once,  as  regards  the  character 
of  people,  what  she  was  ever  to  know  at  all. 
Her  impressions  of  Pansy  unrolled  them 
selves  disconnectedly : 

"  She  makes  mistakes,  but  she  does  not 
know  how  to  do  wrong.  Guile  is  not  in 
her.  She  is  so  innocent  that  she  does  not 
realize  sometimes  the  peril  of  her  own  words. 
She  is  proud  —  a  great  deal  prouder  than 
Dent.  To  her,  life  means  work  and  duty ; 
more  than  that,  it  means  love.  She  is  am- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      277 

bitious,  and  ambition,  in  her  case,  would  be 
indispensable.  She  did  not  claim  Dent :  I 
appreciate  that.  She  is  a  perfectly  brave 
girl,  and  it  is  cowardice  that  makes  so  many 
women  hypocrites.  She  will  improve  —  she 
improved  while  she  was  here.  But  oh,  every 
thing  else !  No  figure,  no  beauty,  no  grace,  no 
tact,  no  voice,  no  hands,  no  feet,  no  waist,  no 
back,  no  shoulders,  no  anything !  Dent  says 
there  are  cold  bodies  which  he  calls  planets  with 
out  atmosphere :  he  has  found  one  to  revolve 
about  him.  If  she  only  had  some  clouds  !  A 
mist  here  and  there,  so  that  everything  would 
not  be  so  plain,  so  exposed,  so  terribly  open  ! 
But  neither  has  he  any  clouds,  any  mists,  any 
atmosphere.  And  if  she  only  would  not  so 
try  to  expose  other  people !  If  she  had  not 
so  trampled  upon  me  in  my  ignorance ;  and 
with  such  a  sense  of  triumph  !  I  was  never 
so  educated  in  my  life  by  a  visitor.  The 
amount  of  information  she  imparted  in  half 
an  hour  —  how  many  months  it  would  have 
served  the  purpose  of  a  well-bred  woman  ! 
And  her  pride  in  her  family  —  were  there 
ever  such  little  brothers  and  sisters  outside 


278       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

a  royal  family  !  And  her  devotion  to  her 
father,  and  remembrance  of  her  mother.  I 
shall  go  to  see  her,  and  be  received,  I  sup 
pose,  somewhere  between  the  griddle  and  the 
churn." 

As  Pansy  was  driven  home,  feeling  under 
herself  for  the  first  time  the  elasticity  of  a 
perfect  carriage,  she  experimented  with  her 
posture.  "  This  carriage  is  not  to  be  sat  in 
in  the  usual  way,"  she  said.  And  indeed  it 
was  not.  In  the  family  rockaway  there  was 
constant  need  of  muscular  adjustment  to  dif 
ferent  shocks  at  successive  moments ;  here 
muscular  surrender  was  required  :  a  comfort 
able  collapse  —  and  there  you  were  ! 

Trouble  awaited  her  at  home.  Owing  to 
preoccupation  with  her  visit  she  had,  before 
setting  out,  neglected  much  of  her  morning 
work.  She  had  especially  forgotten  the  hun 
gry  multitude  of  her  dependants.  The  chil 
dren,  taking  advantage  of  her  absence,  had 
fed  only  themselves.  As  a  consequence,  the 
trustful  lives  around  the  house  had  suffered 
a  great  wrong,  and  they  were  attempting  to 
describe  it  to  each  other.  The  instant  Pansy 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       279 

descended  from  the  carriage  the  ducks,  massed 
around  the  doorsteps,  discovered  her,  and 
with  frantic  outcry  and  outstretched  necks 
ran  to  find  out  what  it  all  meant.  The  sig 
nal  was  taken  up  by  other  species  and  genera. 
In  the  stable  lot  the  calves  responded  as  the 
French  horn  end  of  the  orchestra;  and  the 
youngest  of  her  little  brothers,  who  had 
climbed  into  a  fruit  tree  as  a  lookout  for 
her  return,  in  scrambling  hurriedly  down, 
dropped  to  the  earth  with  the  boneless  thud 
of  an  opossum. 

Pansy  walked  straight  up  to  her  room, 
heeding  nothing,  leaving  a  wailing  wake. 
She  locked  herself  in.  It  was  an  hour  be 
fore  dinner  and  she  needed  all  those  mo 
ments  for  herself. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  and  new 
light  brought  new  wretchedness.  It  was 
not,  after  all,  quantity  of  information  that 
made  the  chief  difference  between  herself 
and  Dent's  mother.  The  other  things,  all 
the  other  things  —  would  she  ever,  ever 
acquire  them  !  Finally  the  picture  rose 
before  her  of  how  the  footman  had  looked 


28 o       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

as  he  had  held  the  carriage  door  open  for 
her,  and  the  ducks  had  sprawled  over  his 
feet ;  and  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  hat 
and  all,  and  burst  out  crying  with  rage  and 
grief  and  mortification. 

"  She  will  think  I  am  common/'  she 
moaned,  "  and  I  am  not  common  !  Why 
did  I  say  such  things  ?  It  is  not  my  way 
of  talking.  Why  did  I  criticise  the  way  the 
portrait  was  hung  ?  And  she  will  think  this 
is  what  I  really  am,  and  it  is  not  what  I  am  ! 
She  will  think  I  do  not  even  know  how  to 
sit  in  a  chair,  and  she  will  tell  Dent,  and  Dent 

will    believe  her,  and  what  will  become  of 

?» 

"  Pansy,"  said  Dent  next  afternoon,  as 
they  were  in  the  woods  together,  "  you 
have  won  my  mother's  heart." 

"  Oh,  Dent,"  she  exclaimed,  tears  starting, 
"  I  was  afraid  she  would  not  like  me.  How 
could  she  like  me,  knowing  me  no  better  ?  " 

"  She  doesn't  yet  know  that  she  likes  you," 
he  replied,  with  his  honest  thinking  and  his 
honest  speech, "  but  I  can  see  that  she  trusts 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       281 

you  and  respects  you ;  and  with  my  mother 
everything  else  follows  in  time." 

"  I  was  embarrassed.  I  did  myself  such 
injustice." 

"  It  is  something  you  never  did  any  one 
else." 

He  had  been  at  work  in  his  quarry  on  the 
vestiges  of  creation ;  the  quarry  lay  at  an 
outcrop  of  that  northern  'hill  overlooking 
the  valley  in  which  she  lived.  Near  by  was 
a  woodland,  and  she  had  come  out  for  some 
work  of  her  own  in  which  he  guided  her. 
They  lay  on  the  grass  now  side  by  side. 

"  I  am  working  on  the  plan  of  our  house. 
Pansy.  I  expect  to  begin  to  build  in  the 
autumn.  I  have  chosen  this  spot  for  the 
site.  How  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  like  it  very  well.  For  one  reason,  I 
can  always  see  the  old  place  from  it." 

"  My  father  left  his  estate  to  be  equally 
divided  between  Rowan  and  me.  Of  course 
he  could  not  divide  the  house ;  that  goes  to 
Rowan  :  it  is  a  good  custom  for  this  country 
as  it  was  a  good  custom  for  our  forefathers 
in  England.  But  I  get  an  equivalent  and 


282       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

am  to  build  for  myself  on  this  part  of  the 
land :  my  portion  is  over  here.  You  see  we 
have  always  been  divided  only  by  a  few 
fences  and  they  do  not  divide  at  all." 

"  The  same  plants  grow  on  each  side, 
Dent." 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  have  to  tell  you. 
If  you  are  coming  into  our  family,  you  ought 
to  know  it  beforehand.  There  is  a  shadow 
over  our  house.  It  grows  deeper  every  year 
and  we  do  not  know  what  it  means.  That  is, 
my  mother  and  I  do  not  know.  It  is  some 
secret  in  Rowan's  life.  He  has  never  offered 
to  tell  us,  and  of  course  we  have  never 
asked  him,  and  in  fact  mother  and  I  have 
never  even  spoken  to  each  other  on  the 
subject." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  even  seen  sad 
ness  in  his  eyes ;  and  she  impulsively  clasped 
his  hand.  He  returned  the  pressure  and 
then  their  palms  separated.  No  franker  sign 
of  their  love  had  ever  passed  between  them. 

He  went  on  very  gravely  :  "  Rowan  was 
the  most  open  nature  I  ever  saw  when  he 
was  a  boy.  I  remember  this  now.  I  did 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       283 

not  think  of  it  then.  I  believe  he  was  the 
happiest.  You  know  we  are  all  pantheists 
of  some  kind  nowadays.  I  could  never  see 
much  difference  between  a  living  thing  that 
stands  rooted  in  the  earth  like  a  tree  and  a 
living  thing  whose  destiny  it  is  to  move  the 
foot  perpetually  over  the  earth,  as  man.  The 
union  is  as  close  in  one  case  as  in  the  other. 
Do  you  remember  the  blind  man  of  the  New 
Testament  who  saw  men  as  trees  walking? 
Rowan  seemed  to  me,  as  I  recall  him  now, 
to  have  risen  out  of  the  earth  through  my 
father  and  mother  —  a  growth  of  wild  nature, 
with  the  seasons  in  his  face,  with  the  blood 
of  the  planet  rising  into  his  veins  as  inti 
mately  as  it  pours  into  a  spring  oak  or  into 
an  autumn  grape-vine.  I  often  heard  Pro 
fessor  Hardage  call  him  the  earth-born.  He 
never  called  any  one  else  that.  He  was  wild 
with  happiness  until  he  went  to  college.  He 
came  back  all  changed ;  and  life  has  been 
uphill  with  him  ever  since.  Lately  things 
have  grown  worse.  The  other  day  I  was 
working  on  the  plan  of  our  house ;  he  came 
in  and  looked  over  my  shoulder :  c  Don't 


284       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

build.  Dent/  he  said,  c  bring  your  wife  here/ 
and  he  walked  quickly  out  of  the  room.  I 
knew  what  that  meant :  he  has  been  unfortu 
nate  in  his  love  affair  and  is  ready  to  throw 
up  the  whole  idea  of  marrying.  This  is  our 
trouble,  Pansy.  It  may  explain  anything 
that  may  have  been  lacking  in  my  mother's 
treatment  of  you ;  she  is  not  herself  at  all." 
He  spoke  with  great  tenderness  and  he 
looked  disturbed. 

"Can  I  do  anything?"  What  had  she 
been  all  her  life  but  burden-bearer,  sorrow- 
sharer  ? 

"  Nothing." 

"  If  I  ever  can,  will  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  only  secret  I  have  kept  from 
you,  Pansy.  I  am  sure  you  have  kept  none 
from  me.  I  believe  that  if  I  could  read 
everything  in  you,  I  should  find  nothing  I 
did  not  wish  to  know." 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  while.  Then  she 
said  solemnly  :  "  I  have  one  secret.  There 
is  something  I  try  to  hide  from  every  human 
being  and  I  always  shall.  It  is  not  a  bad 
secret,  Dent.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  teli  you 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       285 

what  it  is,  and  I  feel  sure  you  will  never  ask 
me." 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  her  clear  with  un 
shakable  confidence  :  "  I  never  will." 

Pansy  was  thinking  of  her  mother's 
poverty. 

They  sat  awhile  in  silence. 

He  had  pulled  some  stems  of  seeding 
grass  and  drew  them  slowly  across  his  palm, 
pondering  Life.  Then  he  began  to  talk  to 
her  in  the  way  that  made  them  so  much  at 
home  with  one  another. 

"  Pansy,  men  used  to  speak  of  the  secrets 
of  Nature :  there  is  not  the  slightest  evi 
dence  that  Nature  has  a  secret.  They  used 
to  speak  of  the  mysteries  of  the  Creator.  I 
am  not  one  of  those  who  claim  to  be  au 
thorities  on  the  traits  of  the  Creator.  Some 
of  my  ancestors  considered  themselves  such. 
But  I  do  say  that  men  are  coming  more  and 
more  to  think  of  Him  as  having  no  myste 
ries.  We  have  no  evidence,  as  the  old  hymn 
declares,  that  He  loves  to  move  in  a  myste 
rious  way.  The  entire  openness  of  Nature 
and  of  the  Creator  —  these  are  the  new  ways 


286       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  thinking.  They  will  be  the  only  ways  oi 
thinking  in  the  future  unless  civilization 
sinks  again  into  darkness.  What  we  call 
secrets  and  mysteries  of  the  universe  are  the 
limitations  of  our  powers  and  our  knowledge. 
The  little  that  we  actually  do  know  about 
Nature,  how  open  it  is,  how  unsecretive ! 
There  is  nowhere  a  sign  that  the  Creator 
wishes  to  hide  from  us  even  what  is  Life. 
If  we  ever  discover  what  Life  is,  no  doubt 
we  shall  then  realize  that  it  contained  no 
mystery.'* 

She  loved  to  listen,  feeling  that  he  was 
drawing  her  to  his  way  of  thinking  for  the 
coming  years. 

<c  It  was  the  folly  and  the  crime  of  all 
ancient  religions  that  their  priesthoods  veiled 
them  ;  whenever  the  veil  was  rent,  like  the 
veil  of  Isis,  it  was  not  God  that  men  found 
behind  it :  it  was  nothing.  The  religions  of 
the  future  will  have  no  veils.  As  far  as  they 
can  set  before  their  worshippers  truth  at  all,  it 
will  be  truth  as  open  as  the  day.  The  Great 
Teacher  in  the  New  Testament  —  what  an 
eternal  lesson  on  light  itself:  that  is  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      287 

beauty  of  his  Gospel.  And  his  Apostles — • 
where  do  you  find  him  saying  to  them, 
c  Preach  my  word  to  all  men  as  the  secrets 
of  a  priesthood  and  the  mysteries  of  the 
Father'? 

"  It  is  the  tragedy  of  man  alone  that  he 
has  his  secrets.  No  doubt  the  time  will 
come  when  I  shall  have  mine  and  when  I 
shall  have  to  hide  things  from  you,  Pansy, 
as  Rowan  has  his  and  hides  things  from  us. 
Life  is  full  of  things  that  we  cannot  tell 
because  they  would  injure  us ;  and  of  things 
that  we  cannot  tell  because  they  would  injure 
others.  But  surely  we  should  all  like  to  live 
in  a  time  when  a  man's  private  life  would  be 
his  only  life." 

After  a  silence  he  came  back  to  her  with  a 
quiet  laugh  :  "  Here  I  am  talking  about  the 
future  of  the  human  race,  and  we  have  never 
agreed  upon  our  marriage  ceremony  !  What 
a  lover ! " 

"  I  want  the  most  beautiful  ceremony  in 
the  world." 

"  The  ceremony  of  your  church  ?  "  he 
asked  with  great  respect,  though  wincing. 


288       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  My  church  has  no  ceremony :  every 
minister  in  it  has  his  own  ;  and  rather  than 
have  one  of  them  write  mine,  I  think  I  should 
rather  write  it  myself:  shouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  should/'  he  said,  laughing. 

He  drew  a  little  book  out  of  his  breast 
pocket :  "  Perhaps  you  will  like  this :  a  great 
many  people  have  been  married  by  it." 

"  I  want  the  same  ceremony  that  is  used 
for  kings  and  queens,  for  the  greatest  and 
the  best  people  of  the  earth.  I  will  marry 
you  by  no  other !  " 

"  A  good  many  of  them  have  used  this," 
and  he  read  to  her  the  ceremony  of  his 
church. 

When  he  finished  neither  spoke. 

It  was  a  clear  summer  afternoon.  Under 
them  was  the  strength  of  rocks ;  around 
them  the  noiseless  growth  of  needful  things  ; 
above  them  the  upward-drawing  light :  two 
working  children  of  the  New  World,  two 
pieces  of  Nature's  quietism. 


II 


IT  was  the  second  morning  after  Mar 
guerite's  ball. 

Marguerite,  to  herself  a  girl  no  longer, 
lay  in  the  middle  of  a  great,  fragrant,  drowsy 
bed  of  carved  walnut,  once  her  grandmother's. 
She  had  been  dreaming ;  she  had  just  awak 
ened.  The  sun,  long  since  risen  above  the 
trees  of  the  yard,  was  slanting  through  the 
leaves  and  roses  that  formed  an  outside  lat 
tice  to  her  window-blinds. 

These  blinds  were  very  old.  They  had 
been  her  grandmother's  when  she  was  Mar 
guerite's  age ;  and  one  day,  not  long  before 
this,  Marguerite,  pillaging  the  attic,  had 
found  them  and  brought  them  down,  with 
adoring  eyes,  and  put  them  up  before  her 
own  windows.  They  were  of  thin  muslin, 
and  on  them  were  painted  scenes  represent 
ing  the  River  of  Life,  with  hills  and  castles, 
valleys  and  streams,  in  a  long  series ;  at  the 
end  there  was  a  faint  vision  of  a  crystal  dome 
u  289 


290       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

in  the  air — the  Celestial  City  —  nearly  washed 
away.  You  looked  at  these  scenes  through 
the  arches  of  a  ruined  castle.  A  young  man 
(on  one  blind)  has  just  said  farewell  to  his 
parents  on  the  steps  of  the  castle  and  is 
rowing  away  down  the  River  of  Life.  At 
the  prow  of  his  boat  is  the  figurehead  of  a 
winged  woman  holding  an  hour-glass. 

Marguerite  lay  on  her  side,  sleepily  con 
templating  the  whole  scene  between  her 
thick,  bosky  lashes.  She  liked  everything 
but  the  winged  woman  holding  the  hour 
glass.  Had  she  been  that  woman,  she  would 
have  dropped  the  hour-glass  into  the  blue, 
burying  water,  and  have  reached  up  her 
hand  for  the  young  man  to  draw  her  into 
the  boat  with  him.  And  she  would  have 
taken  off  her  wings  and  cast  them  away 
upon  the  hurrying  river.  To  have  been 
alone  with  him,  no  hour-glass,  no  wings, 
rowing  away  on  Life's  long  voyage,  past 
castles  and  valleys,  and  never'ending  woods 
and  streams!  As  to  the  Celestial  City,  she 
would  have  liked  her  blinds  better  if  the 
rains  of  her  grandmother's  youth  had  washed 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       291 

it  away  altogether.  It  was  not  the  desirable 
end  of  such  a  journey :  she  did  not  care  to 
land  there. 

Marguerite  slipped  drowsily  over  to  the 
edge  of  the  bed  in  order  to  be  nearer  the 
blinds ;  and  she  began  to  study  what  was 
left  of  the  face  of  the  young  man  just  start 
ing  on  his  adventures  from  the  house  of  his 
fathers.  Who  was  he  ?  Of  whom  did  he 
cause  her  to  think  ?  She  sat  up  in  bed  and 
propped  her  face  in  the  palms  of  her  hands 
—  the  April  face  with  its  October  eyes  — 
and  lapsed  into  what  had  been  her  dreams  of 
the  night.  The  laces  of  her  nightgown 
dropped  from  her  wrists  to  her  elbows ;  the 
masses  of  her  hair,  like  sunlit  autumn  maize, 
fell  down  over  her  neck  and  shoulders  into 
the  purity  of  the  bed. 

Until  the  evening  of  her  party  the  world 
had  been  to  Marguerite  something  that 
arranged  all  her  happiness  and  never  inter 
fered  with  it.  Only  soundness  and  loveli 
ness  of  nature,  inborn,  undestroyable,  could 
have  withstood  such  luxury,  indulgence,  sur 
feit  as  she  had  always  known. 


292        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

On  that  night  which  was  designed  to  end 
for  her  the  life  of  childhood,  she  had,  for  the 
first  time,  beheld  the  symbol  of  the  world's 
diviner  beauty  —  a  cross.  All  her  guests 
had  individually  greeted  her  as  though  each 
were  happier  in  her  happiness.  Except  one 
—  he  did  not  care.  Fie  had  spoken  to  her 
upon  entering  with  the  manner  of  one  who 
wished  himself  elsewhere  ;  he  alone  brought 
no  tribute  to  her  of  any  kind,  in  his  eyes, 
by  his  smile,  through  the  pressure  of  his 
hand. 

The  slight  wounded  her  at  the  moment ; 
she  had  not  expected  to  have  a  guest  to 
whom  she  would  be  nothing  and  to  whom 
it  would  seem  no  unkindness  to  let  her  know 
this.  The  slight  left  its  trail  of  pain  as  the 
evening  wore  on  and  he  did  not  come  near 
her.  Several  times,  while  standing  close  to 
him,  she  had  looked  her  surprise,  had  shad 
owed  her  face  with  coldness  for  him  to  see. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  herself 
rejected,  suffered  the  fascination  of  that  pain. 
Afterward  she  had  intentionally  pressed  so 
close  to  him  in  the  throng  of  her  guests  that 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       293 

her  arm  brushed  his  sleeve.  At  last  she  had 
disengaged  herself  from  all  others  and  had 
even  gone  to  him  with  the  inquiries  of  a 
hostess ;  and  he  had  forced  himself  to  smile 
at  her  and  had  forgotten  her  while  he  spoke 
to  her  —  as  though  she  were  a  child.  All 
her  nature  was  exquisitely  loosened  that 
night,  and  quivering ;  it  was  not  a  time  to  be 
so  wounded  and  to  forget. 

She  did  not  forget  as  she  sat  in  her  room 
after  all  had  gone.  She  took  the  kindnesses 
and  caresses,  the  congratulations  and  tri 
umphs,  of  those  full-fruited  hours,  pressed 
them  together  and  derived  merely  one  clear 
drop  of  bitterness  —  the  languorous  poison 
of  one  haunting  desire.  It  followed  her  into 
her  sleep  and  through  the  next  day ;  and 
not  until  night  came  again  and  she  had 
passed  through  the  gateway  of  dreams  was 
she  happy :  for  in  those  dreams  it  was  he 
who  was  setting  out  from  the  house  of  his 
fathers  on  a  voyage  down  the  River  of  Life ; 
and  he  had  paused  and  turned  and  called 
her  to  come  to  him  and  be  with  him  always. 

Marguerite  lifted  her  face  from  her  palms, 


294       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

as  she  finished  her  revery.  She  slipped  to 
the  floor  out  of  the  big  walnut  bed,  and 
crossing  to  the  blinds  laid  her  fingers  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder.  It  was  the  move 
ment  with  which  one  says  :  "  I  have  come." 

With  a  sigh  she  drew  one  of  the  blinds 
aside  and  looked  out  upon  the  leaves  and 
roses  of  her  yard  and  at  the  dazzling  sun 
light.  Within  a  few  feet  of  her  a  bird  was 
singing.  "  How  can  you  ?  "  she  said.  "  If 
you  loved,  you  would  be  silent.  Your  wings 
would  droop.  You  could  neither  sing  nor 
fly/'  She  turned  dreamily  back  into  her 
room  and  wandered  over  to  a  little  table  on 
which  her  violin  lay  in  its  box.  She  lifted 
the  top  and  thrummed  the  strings.  "  How 
could  I  ever  have  loved  you  ?  '* 

She  dressed  absent-mindedly.  How 
should  she  spend  the  forenoon  ?  Some  of 
her  friends  would  be  coming  to  talk  over  the 
party ;  there  would  be  callers ;  there  was  the 
summer-house,  her  hammock,  her  phaeton ; 
there  were  nooks  and  seats,  cool,  fragrant; 
there  were  her  mother  and  grandmother  to 
prattle  to  and  caress.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  not 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       295 

any  of  them.  One  person  only.  I  must 
see  him.'1 

She  thought  of  the  places  where  she  could 
probably  see  him  if  he  should  be  in  town 
that  day.  There  was  only  one  —  the  library. 
Often,  when  there,  she  had  seen  him  pass  in 
and  out.  He  had  no  need  to  come  for 
books  or  periodicals,  all  these  he  could  have 
at  home  ;  but  she  had  heard  the  librarian 
and  him  at  work  over  the  files  of  old  papers 
containing  accounts  of  early  agricultural 
affairs  and  the  first  cattle-shows  of  the  state. 
She  resolved  to  go  to  the  library :  what 
desire  had  she  ever  known  that  she  had  not 
gratified  ? 

When  Marguerite,  about  eleven  o'clock, 
approached  the  library  a  little  fearfully,  she 
saw  Barbee  pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  sidewalk 
before  the  steps.  She  felt  inclined  to  turn 
back ;  he  was  the  last  person  she  cared  to 
meet  this  morning.  Play  with  him  had 
suddenly  ended  as  a  picnic  in  a  spring  grove 
is  interrupted  by  a  tempest. 

"  I  ought  to  tell  him  at  once,"  she  said ; 
and  she  went  forward. 


296        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

He  came  to  meet  her  —  with  a  countenance 
dissatisfied  and  reproachful.  It  struck  her 
that  his  thin  large  ears  looked  yellowish 
instead  of  red  and  that  his  freckles  had 
apparently  spread  and  thickened.  She  asked 
herself  why  she  had  never  before  realized 
!iow  boyish  he  was. 

"  Marguerite,"  he  said  at  once,  as  though 
the  matter  were  to  be  taken  firmly  in  hand, 
"  you  treated  me  shabbily  the  night  of  your 
party.  It  was  unworthy  of  you.  And  I 
will  not  stand  it.  You  ought  not  to  be  such 
a  child  !  " 

Her  breath  was  taken  away.  She  blanched 
and  her  eyes  dilated  as  she  looked  at  him  : 
the  lash  of  words  had  never  been  laid  on 
her. 

"  Are  you  calling  me  to  account  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  Then  I  shall  call  you  to  an  account. 
When  you  came  up  to  speak  to  grandmother 
and  to  mamma  and  me,  you  spoke  to  us  as 
though  you  were  an  indifferent  suitor  of 
mine  —  as  though  I  were  a  suitor  of  yours. 
As  soon  as  you  were  gone,  mamma  said  to  me  : 
c  What  have  you  been  doing,  Marguerite, 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       297 

that  he  should  think  you  are  in  love  with 
him  —  that  he  should  treat  us  as  though  we 
all  wished  to  catch  him? ' : 

"That  was  a  mistake  of  your  mother's. 
But  after  what  had  passed  between  us  —  " 

"  No  matter  what  had  passed  between  us, 
I  do  not  think  that  a  man  would  virtually 
tell  a  girl's  mother  on  her :  a  boy  might." 

He  grew  ashen ;  and  he  took  his  hand 
out  of  his  pockets  and  straightened  himself 
from  his  slouchy  lounging  posture,  and 
stood  before  her,  his  head  in  the  air  on  his 
long  neck  like  a  young  stag  affronted 
and  enraged. 

"  It  is  true,  I  have  sometimes  been  too 
much  like  a  boy  with  you,"  he  said.  "  Have 
you  made  it  possible  for  me  to  be  anything 
else  ?  " 

"  Then  I'll  make  it  possible  for  you  now : 
to  begin,  I  am  too  old  to  be  called ,  to 
account  for  my  actions  —  except  by  those 
who  have  the  right." 

"You  mean,  that  I  have  no  right  —  after 
what  has  passed  —  " 

"  Nothing  has  passed  between  us  ! " 


298        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  Marguerite,"  he  said,  "  do  you  mean  that 
you  do  not  love  me  ?  " 

"  Can  you  not  see  ?  " 

She  was  standing  on  the  steps  above  him. 
The  many-fluted  parasol  with  its  long  silken 
fringes  rested  on  one  shoulder.  Her  face 
in  the  dazzling  sunlight,  under  her  hat,  had 
lost  its  gayety.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  his 
with  perfect  quietness. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  you  yourself 
know  whether  you  love  me/'  he  said,  laugh 
ing  pitifully.  His  big  mouth  twitched  and 
his  love  had  come  back  into  his  eyes  quickly 
enough. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  how  T  know,"  she  said, 
with  more  kindness.  "  If  I  loved  you,  I 
could  not  stand  here  and  speak  of  it  to  you 
in  this  way.  I  could  not  tell  you  you  are 
not  a  man.  Everything  in  me  would  go 
down  before  you.  You  could  do  with  my 
life  what  you  pleased.  No  one  in  compari 
son  with  you  would  mean  anything  to  me  — 
not  even  mamma.  As  long  as  I  was  with 
you,  I  should  never  wish  to  sleep ;  if  you 
were  away  from  me,  I  should  never  wish  to 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       299 

waken.  If  you  were  poor,  if  you  were 
in  trouble,  you  would  be  all  the  dearer 
to  me  —  if  you  only  loved  me,  only  loved 
me!" 

Who  is  it  that  can  mark  down  the  moment 
when  we  ceased  to  be  children  ?  Gazing 
backward  in  after  years,  we  sometimes  at 
tempt  dimly  to  fix  the  time.  "  It  probably 
occurred  on  that  day,"  we  declare  ;  "  it  may 
have  taken  place  during  that  night.  It  coin 
cided  with  that  hardship,  or  with  that  mastery 
of  life."  But  a  child  can  suffer  and  can  tri 
umph  as  a  man  or  a  woman,  yet  remain  a 
child.  Like  man  and  woman  it  can  hate, 
envy,  malign,  cheat,  lie,  tyrannize ;  or  bless, 
cheer,  defend,  drop  its  pitying  tears,  pour 
out  its  heroic  spirit.  Love  alone  among 
the  passions  parts  the  two  eternities  of  a 
lifetime.  The  instant  it  is  born,  the  child 
which  was  its  parent  is  dead. 

As  Marguerite  suddenly  ceased  speaking, 
frightened  by  the  secret  import  of  her  own 
words,  her  skin,  which  had  the  satinlike  fine 
ness  and  sheen  of  white  poppy  leaves,  be 
came  dyed  from  brow  to  breast  with  a  surging 


300        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

flame  of  rose.  She  turned  partly  away  from 
Barbee,  and  she  waited  for  him  to  go. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  with  torment 
in  his  eyes ;  then,  lifting  his  hat  without  a 
word,  he  turned  and  walked  proudly  down 
the  street  toward  his  office. 

Marguerite  did  not  send  a  glance  after 
him.  What  can  make  us  so  cruel  to  those 
who  vainly  love  us  as  our  vain  love  of  some 
one  else  ?  What  do  we  care  for  their  suffer 
ing  ?  We  see  it  in  their  faces,  hear  it  in  their 
speech,  feel  it  as  the  tragedy  of  their  lives. 
But  we  turn  away  from  them  unmoved  and 
cry  out  at  the  heartlessness  of  those  whom  our 
own  faces  and  words  and  sorrow  do  not  touch. 

She  lowered  her  parasol,  and  pressing  her 
palm  against  one  cheek  and  then  the  other,  to 
force  back  the  betraying  blood,  hurried  agi 
tated  and  elated  into  the  library.  A  new  kind 
of  excitement  filled  her :  she  had  confessed 
her  secret,  had  proved  her  fidelity  to  him  she 
loved  by  turning  off  the  playmate  of  child 
hood.  Who  does  not  know  the  relief  of  con 
fessing  to  some  one  who  does  not  understand  ? 

The  interior  of  the  library  was  an  immense 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       301 

rectangular  room.  Book  shelves  projected 
from  each  side  toward  the  middle,  forming 
alcoves.  Seated  in  one  of  these  alcoves,  you 
could  be  seen  only  by  persons  who  should 
chance  to  pass.  The  library  was  never 
crowded  and  it  was  nearly  empty  now. 
Marguerite  lingered  to  speak  with  the 
librarian,  meantime  looking  carefully  around 
the  room ;  and  then  moved  on  toward  the 
shelves  where  she  remembered  having  once 
seen  a  certain  book  of  which  she  was  now 
thinking.  It  had  not  interested  her  then ; 
she  had  heard  it  spoken  of  since,  but  it  had 
not  interested  her  since.  Only  to-day  some 
thing  new  within  herself  drew  her  toward  it. 

No  one  was  in  the  alcove  she  entered. 
After  a  while  she  found  her  book  and  seated 
herself  in  a  nook  of  the  walls  with  her  face 
turned  in  the  one  direction  from  which  she 
could  be  discovered  by  any  one  passing. 
While  she  read,  she  wished  to  watch  :  might 
he  not  pass  ? 

It  was  a  very  old  volume,  thumbed  by 
generations  of  readers.  Pages  were  gone, 
the  halves  of  pages  worn  away  or  tattered. 


302        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

It  was  printed  in  an  old  style  of  uncertain 
spelling  so  that  the  period  of  its  author 
ship  could  in  this  way  be  but  doubtfully  in 
dicated.  Ostensibly  it  came  down  from  the 
ruder,  plainer  speech  of  old  English  times, 
which  may  have  found  leisure  for  such  "  A 
Booke  of  Folly." 

Marguerite's  eyes  settled  first  on  the  com 
plete  title  :  "  Lady  Bluefields'  First  Principles 
of  Courting  for  Ye  Use  of  Ye  Ladies ;  but 
Plainly  Set  Down  for  Ye  Good  of  Ye 
Beginners." 

"  I  am  not  a  beginner,"  thought  Margue 
rite,  who  had  been  in  love  three  days  ;  and  she 
began  to  read : 

"  Now  of  all  artes  ye  most  ancient  is  ye 
lovely  arte  of  courting.  It  is  ye  earliest  form 
of  ye  chase.  It  is  older  than  hawking  or  hunt 
ing  ye  wilde  bore.  It  is  older  than  ye  flint  age 
or  ye  stone  age,  being  as  old  as  ye  bones  in  ye 
man  his  body  and  in  ye  woman  her  body.  It 
began  in  ye  Garden  of  Eden  and  is  as  old  as 
ye  old  devil  himself." 

Marguerite  laughed  :  she  thought  Lady 
Bluefields  delightful. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       303 

"  Now  ye  only  purpose  in  all  God  His  world 
of  ye  arte  of  courting  is  to  create  love  where 
love  is  not,  or  to  make  it  grow  where  it  has 
begun.  Bui  whether  ye  wish  to  create  love  or 
to  blow  ye  little  coal  into  ye  big  blaze,  ye  princi 
ples  are  ye  same;  for  ye  bellows  that  will  fan 
nothing  into  something  will  easily  roast  ye  spark 
into  ye  roaring  fire ;  and  ye  grander  ye  fire,  ye 
grander  ye  arte." 

Marguerite  laughed  again.  Then  she 
stopped  reading  and  tested  the  passage  in 
the  light  of  her  experience.  A  bellows  and 
—  nothing  to  begin.  Then  something.  Then 
a  spark.  Then  a  flame.  She  returned  to  the 
book  with  the  conclusion  that  Lady  Bluefields 
was  a  woman  of  experience. 

"  This  little  booke  will  not  contain  any  but  ye 
first  principles :  it  is  enough  for  ye  stingy  price 
ye  pay.  But  ye  woman  who  buys  ye  first  princi 
ples  and  fails,  must  then  get  ye  larger  work  on 
ye  Last  Principles  of  Courting,  with  ye  true  ac 
count  of  ye  mysteries  which  set  ye  principles  to 
going  :  it  is  ye  infallible  guide  to  ye  irresistible 
love.  Te  pay  more  for  ye  Big  Booke,  and  God 
knows  it  is  worth  ye  price :  it  is  written  for  ye 


304       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

women  who  are  ye  difficult  cases  — ye  floating 
derelicts  in  ye  ocean  of  love,  ye  hidden  snags, 
terror  of  ye  seafaring  men" 

This  did  not  so  much  interest  Marguerite. 
She  skipped  two  or  three  pages  which  seemed 
to  go  unnecessarily  into  the  subject  of  dere 
licts  and  snags.  "  I  am  not  quite  sure  as  to 
what  a  derelict  is :  I  do  not  think  I  am  one ; 
but  certainly  I  am  not  a  snag." 

"  Now  ye  only  reason  for  ye  lovely  arte  of 
courtinge  is  ye  purpose  to  marry.  If  ye  do 
not  expect  to  marry,  positively  ye  must  not 
court :  flirting  is  ye  dishonest  arte.  Courting  is 
ye  honest  arte ;  if  ye  woman  knows  in  ye  woman 
her  heart  that  she  will  not  make  ye  man  a  good 
wife,  let  her  not  try  to  Cage  ye  man :  let  her 
keep  ye  cat  or  cage  ye  canary :  that  is  enough 
for  her." 

"  I  shall  dispose  of  my  canary  at  once. 
It  goes  to  Miss  Harriet  Crane." 

"  Now  of  all  men  there  is  one  ye  woman 
must  not  court :  ye  married  man.  Positively 
ye  must  not  court  such  a  man.  If  he  wishes 
to  court  ye,  ye  must  make  resistance  to  him 
with  all  ye  soul;  if  you  wish  to  court  him,  ye 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      305 

must  resist  yourself  .  If  he  is  a  married  man  and 
happy  ^  let  him  alone.  If  he  is  married  and 
unhappy^  let  him  bear  his  lot  and  beat  his 

•  r    » 

wife. 

Marguerite's  eyes  flashed.  "  It  is  well  the 
writer  did  not  live  in  this  age/'  she  thought. 

"  Te  men  to  court  are  three  kinds :  first  ye 
swain  ;  second  ye  old  bachelor ;  third  ye  wid 
ower.  Te  old  bachelor  is  like  ye  green  chimney 
of  ye  new  house  —  hard  to  kindle.  But  ye 
widower  is  like  ye  familiar  fireplace.  Te  must 
court  according  to  ye  kind.  Te  bachelor  and 
ye  widower  are  treated  in  ye  big  booke" 

"  The  swain  is  left,"  said  Marguerite.  "How 
and  when  is  the  swain  to  be  courted  ?  " 

"  Now  ye  beauty  of  ye  swain  is  that  ye  can 
court  him  at  all  seasons  of  ye  year.  Te  female 
bird  will  signal  for  ye  mate  only  when  ye  woods 
are  green ;  but  even  ye  old  maid  can  go  to  ye 
icy  spinnet  and  drum  wildly  in  ye  dead  of  winter 
with  ye  aching  fingers  and  ye  swain  mate  will 
sometimes  come  to  her  out  of  ye  cold." 

Marguerite  was  beginning  to  think  that 
nearly  every  one  treated  in  Lady  Bluefields' 
book  was  too  advanced  in  years  :  it  was  too 


306       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

charitable  to  the  problems  of  spinsters. 
"  Where  do  the  young  come  in  ?  "  she 
asked  impatiently. 

"  Te  must  not  court  ye  young  swain  with  ye 
food  or  ye  wine.  That  is  for  ye  old  bachelors 
and  ye  widowers  to  whom  ye  food  and  wine  are 
dear,  but  ye  woman  who  gives  them  not  dear 
enough.  Te  woman  gives  them  meat  and 
drink  and  they  give  ye  woman  hope :  it  is  ye 
bargain :  let  each  be  content  with  what  each 
gets.  But  if  ye  swain  be  bashful  and  ye  know 
that  he  cannot  speak  ye  word  that  he  has  tried 
to  speak,  a  glass  of  ye  wine  will  sometimes  give 
him  that  missing  word.  Te  wine  passes  ye 
word  to  him  and  he  passes  ye  word  to  you  : 
and  ye  keep  it !  When  ye  man  is  soaked  with 
wine  he  does  not  know  what  he  loves  nor  cares  : 
he  will  hug  ye  iron  post  in  ye  street  or  ye  sack 
of  feathers  in  ye  man  his  bed  and  talk  to  it  as 
though  nothing  else  were  dear  to  him  in  all  ye 
world.  It  is  not  ye  love  that  makes  him  do 
this ;  it  is  ye  wine  and  ye  man  his  own  devilish 
nature.  No ;  ye  must  marry  with  wine,  but 
ye  must  court  with  water.  Te  love  that  will 
not  begin  with  water  will  not  last  with  wine." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       307 

This  did  not  go  to  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
Marguerite  turned  over  several  pages. 

"In  ye  arte  of  courting,  it  is  often  ye 
woman  her  eyes  that  settle  ye  man  his  fate. 
But  if  ye  woman  her  eyes  are  not  beautiful,  she 
must  not  court  with  them  but  with  other  mem 
bers  of  ye  woman  her  body.  Te  greatest  use 
of  ye  ugly  eyes  is  to  see  but  not  be  seen.  If  ye 
try  to  court  with  ye  ugly  eyes,  ye  scare  ye  man 
away  or  make  him  to  feel  sick ;  and  ye  will 
be  sorry.  Te  eyes  must  be  beautiful  and  ye 
eyes  must  have  some  mystery.  They  must  not 
be  like  ye  windows  of  ye  house  in  summer  when 
ye  curtains  are  taken  down  and  ye  shutters  are 
taken  off.  As  ye  man  stands  outside  he  must 
want  to  see  all  that  is  within,  but  he  must  not 
be  able.  What  ye  man  loves  ye  woman  for  is 
ye  mystery  in  her ;  if  ye  woman  contain  no 
mystery,  let  her  marry  if  she  must;  but  not 
aspire  to  court.  (This  is  enough  for  ye  stingy 
price  ye  pay  :  if  ye  had  paid  more  money,  ye 
would  have  received  more  instruction^] " 

Marguerite  thought  it  very  little  instruc 
tion  for  any  money.  She  felt  disappointed 
and  provoked.  She  passed  on  to  "  Clothes." 


308        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"What  can  she  teach  me  on  that  subject?" 
she  thought. 

"  When  ye  court  with  ye  clothes,  ye  must  not 
lift  ye  dress  above  ye  ankle  bone" 

"  Then  I  know  what  kind  of  ankle 
bone  she  had,"  said  Marguerite,  bitter  for 
revenge  on  Lady  Bluefields. 

"  Te  clothes  play  a  great e  fart  in  ye  arte  of 
c -our -tinge" 

Marguerite  turned  the  leaf;  but  she  found 
that  the  other  pages  on  the  theme  were  too 
thumbed  and  faint  to  be  legible. 

She  looked  into  the  subject  of  "  Hands  "  : 
learning  where  the  palms  should  be  turned 
up  and  when  turned  down ;  the  meaning 
of  a  crooked  forefinger,  and  of  full  moons 
rising  on  the  horizons  of  the  finger  nails  ; 
why  women  with  freckled  hands  should 
court  bachelors.  Also  how  the  feet,  if  of 
such  and  such  sizes  and  configurations,  must 
be  kept  as  "ye  two  dead  secrets"  Similarly 
how  dimples  must  be  born  and  not  made  — 
with  a  caution  against  "ye  dimple  under  ye 
nose"  (reference  to  "Big  Booke  "  —  well 
worth  the  money,  etc.). 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       309 

When  she  reached  the  subject  of  the  kiss, 
Marguerite  thought  guiltily  of  the  library 
steps. 

"  JV  kiss  is  ye  last  and  ye  greatest  act  in  all  ye 
lovely  arte  of  cour  tinge.  Te  eyes,  ye  hair,  ye  feet, 
ye  dimple,  ye  whole  trunk,  are  of  no  account  if 
they  do  not  lead  up  to  ye  kiss.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  ye  kiss  :  ye  kiss  that  ye  give  and  ye  kiss 
that  ye  take.  Te  kiss  that  ye  take  is  ye  one  ye 
want.  Te  woman  often  wishes  to  give  ye  man 
one  but  cannot;  and  ye  man  often  wishes  to  take 
one  (or  more)  from  ye  woman  but  cannot ;  and 
between  her  not  being  able  to  give  and  his  not 

o  o 

being  able  to  take,  there  is  suffering  enough  in 
this  ill-begotten  and  ill-sorted  world.  Te  great 
est  enemy  of  ye  kiss  that  ye  earth  has  ever  known 
is  ye  sun ;  ye  greatest  friend  is  ye  night. 

"  Te  most  cases  where  ye  woman  can  take 
ye  kiss  are  put  down  in  ye  c  Big  Booked 

"  When  ye  man  lies  sick  in  ye  hospital  and 
ye  woman  bends  over  him  and  he  is  too  weak 
to  raise  his  head,  she  can  let  her  head  fall  down 
on  his ;  it  is  only  the  law  of  gravitation.  But 
not  while  she  is  giving  him  ye  physick.  If  ye 
woman  is  riding  in  ye  carriage  and  ye  horses 


3 1  o       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

run  away  ;  and  ye  man  she  loves  is  standing 
in  ye  bushes  and  rushes  out  and  seizes  ye  horses 
but  is  dragged,  when  he  lies  in  ye  road  in  ye 
swoon,  ye  woman  can  send  ye  driver  around 
behind  ye  carriage  and  kiss  him  then  —  as  she 
always  does  in  ye  women  their  novels  but  never 
does  in  ye  life.  There  is  one  time  when  any 
woman  can  freely  kiss  ye  man  she  loves :  in  ye 
dreame.  It  is  ye  safest  way,  and  ye  best. 
No  one  knows ;  and  it  does  not  disappoint  as  it 
often  does  disappoint  when  ye  are  awake. 

"  Lastly  when  ye  beautiful  swain  that  ye 
woman  loved  is  dead,  she  may  go  into  ye  room 
where  he  lies  white  and  cold  and  kiss  him 
then  :  but  she  waited  too  long." 

Marguerite  let  the  book  fall  as  though  an 
arrow  had  pierced  her.  At  the  same  time 
she  heard  the  librarian  approaching.  She 
quickly  restored  the  volume  to  its  place  and 
drew  out  another  book.  The  librarian 
entered  the  alcove,  smiled  at  Marguerite, 
peeped  over  her  shoulder  into  the  book  she 
was  reading,  searched  for  another,  and  took 
it  away.  When  she  disappeared,  Marguerite 
rose  and  looked ;  Lady  Bluefields  was  gone. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       3 1 1 

She  could  not  banish  those  heart-breaking 
words :  "  When  ye  beautiful  swain  that  ye 
woman  loved  is  dead"  The  longing  of  the  past 
days,  the  sadness,  the  languor  that  was 
ecstasy  and  pain,  swept  back  over  her  as  she 
sat  listening  now,  hoping  for  another  footstep. 
Would  he  not  come  ?  She  did  not  ask 
to  speak  with  him.  If  she  might  only  see 
him,  only  feel  him  near  for  a  few  moments. 

She  quitted  the  library  slowly  at  last, 
trying  to  escape  notice ;  and  passed  up  the 
street  with  an  unconscious  slight  drooping  of 
that  aerial  figure.  When  she  reached  her 
yard,  the  tree-tops  within  were  swaying  and 
showing  the  pale  gray  under-surfaces  of  their 
leaves.  A  storm  was  coming.  She  turned 
at  the  gate,  her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  looked 
toward  the  cloud  with  red  lightnings  darting 
from  it :  a  still  white  figure  confronting  that 
noonday  darkness  of  the  skies. 

"Grandmother  never  loved  but  once," 
she  said.  "  Mamma  never  loved  but  once : 
it  is  our  fate." 


Ill 


"ANNA,"  said  Professor  Hardage  that 
same  morning,  coming  out  of  his  library  into 
the  side  porch  where  Miss  Anna,  sitting  in 
a  green  chair  and  wearing  a  pink  apron  and 
holding  a  yellow  bowl  with  a  blue  border, 
was  seeding  scarlet  cherries  for  a  brown  roll, 
"see  what  somebody  has  sent  me"  He 
held  up  a  many-colored  bouquet  tied  with  a 
brilliant  ribbon  ;  to  the  ribbon  was  pinned 
an  old-fashioned  card. 

"  Ah,  now,  that  is  what  comes  of  your 
being  at  the  ball,"  said  Miss  Anna,  delighted 
and  brimming  with  pride.  "  Somebody  fell 
in  love  with  you.  I  told  you  you  looked 
handsome  that  night,"  and  she  beckoned 
impatiently  for  the  bouquet. 

He   surrendered   it  with  a  dubious  look. 

She   did   not  consider  the  little  tumulus  of 

Flora,  but  devoured  the  name  of  the  builder. 

Her  face  turned  crimson ;  and  leaning  over 

312 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       3 1  3 

to  one  side,  she  dropped  the  bouquet  into 
the  basket  for  cherry  seed.  Then  she  con 
tinued  her  dutiful  pastime,  her  head  bent  so 
low  that  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  part 
dividing  the  soft  brown  hair  of  her  fine  head. 

Fie  sat  down  and  laughed  at  her:  "I 
knew  you'd  get  me  into  trouble." 

It  was  some  moments  before  she  asked 
in  a  guilty  voice  :  "  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  What  did  you  tell  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  asked  you  to  be  kind  to  Harriet,"  she 
murmured  mournfully. 

"  You  told  me  to  take  her  out  into  the 
darkest  place  I  could  find  and  to  sit  there 
with  her  and  hold  her  hand." 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  to  hold  her  hand.  I 
told  you  to  try  to  hold  her  hand." 

"  Well !  I  builded  better  than  you  knew  : 
give  me  my  flowers." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  "  she  asked  again  in 
a  voice  that  admitted  the  worst. 

"  How  do  /  know  ?  I  was  thinking  of 
something  else  !  But  here  comes  Harriet," 
he  said,  quickly  standing  up  and  gazing  down 
the  street. 


3 1 4       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  Go  in,"  said  Miss  Anna,  "  I  want  to  see 
Harriet  alone" 

"  You  go  in.  The  porch  isn't  dark;  but 
I'll  stay  here  with  her  !  " 

"  Please." 

When  he  had  gone,  Miss  Anna  leaned  over 
and  lifting  the  bouquet  from  the  stickingcherry 
seed  tossed  it  into  the  yard  —  tossed  it  far. 

Harriet  came  out  into  the  porch  looking 
wonderfully  fresh.  "  How  do  you  do, 
Anna  ? "  she  said  with  an  accent  of  new 
cordiality,  established  cordiality. 

The  accent  struck  Miss  Anna's  ear  as  the 
voice  of  the  bouquet.  She  had  at  once  dis 
covered  also  that  Harriet  was  beautifully 
dressed  —  even  to  the  point  of  wearing  her 
best  gloves. 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Harriet,"  she  re 
plied,  giving  the  yellow  bowl  an  unnecessary 
shake  and  speaking  quite  incidentally  as 
though  the  visit  were  not  of  the  slightest 
consequence.  She  did  not  invite  Harriet  to 
be  seated.  Harriet  seated  herself. 

"Aren't  you  well,  Anna?"  she  inquired 
with  blank  surprise. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       3 1  5 

"  I  am  always  well." 

"  Is  any  one  ill,  Anna? " 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge/' 

Harriet  knew  Miss  Anna  to  have  the 
sweetest  nature  of  all  women.  She  realized 
that  she  herself  was  often  a  care  to  her  friend. 
A  certain  impulse  inspired  her  now  to  give 
assurance  that  she  had  not  come  this  morn 
ing  to  weigh  her  down  with  more  troubles. 

"  Do  you  know,  Anna,  I  never  felt  so 
well !  Marguerite's  ball  really  brought  me 
out.  I  have  turned  over  a  new  leaf  of  des 
tiny  and  I  am  going  out  more  after  this. 
What  right  has  a  woman  to  give  up  life  so 
soon  ?  I  shall  go  out  more,  and  I  shall 
read  more,  and  be  a  different  woman,  and 
cease  worrying  you.  Aren't  women  reading 
history  now  ?  But  then  they  are  doing 
everything.  Still  that  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  read  a  little,  because  my  mind  is 
really  a  blank  on  the  subject  of  the  antiq 
uities.  Of  course  I  can  get  the  ancient 
Hebrews  out  of  the  Bible ;  but  I  ought  to 
know  more  about  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 
Now  oughtn't  I  ?  " 


3  1 6       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"You  don't  want  to  know  anything  about 
the  Greeks  and  the  Romans,  Harriet,"  said 
Miss  Anna.  "  Content  yourself  with  the 
earliest  Hebrews.  You  have  gotten  along 
very  well  without  the  Greeks  and  the 
Romans  —  for  —  a  —  long  —  time." 

Harriet  understood  at  last ;  there  was  no 
mistaking  now.  She  was  a  very  delicate 
instrument  and  much  used  to  being  rudely 
played  upon.  Her  friend's  reception  of  her 
to-day  had  been  so  unaccountable  that  at 
one  moment  she  had  suspected  that  her 
appearance  might  be  at  fault.  Harriet  had 
known  women  to  turn  cold  at  the  sight 
of  a  new  gown ;  and  it  had  really  become  a 
life  principle  not  to  dress  even  as  well  as 
she  could,  because  she  needed  the  kindness 
that  flows  out  so  copiously  from  new  clothes 
to  old  clothes.  But  it  was  embarrass 
ment  that  caused  her  now  to  say  rather 
aimlessly  : 

"  I  believe  I  feel  overdressed.  What 
possessed  me  ?  " 

"  Don't  overdress  again,"  enjoined  Miss 
Anna  in  stern  confidence.  "  Never  try  to 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       3 1 7 

change  yourself  in  any  way.     I  like  you  bet 
ter  as  you  are  —  a  —  great  —  deal  —  better." 

"Then  you  shall  have  me  as  you  like  me, 
Anna  dear,"  replied  Harriet,  faithfully  and 
earnestly,  with  a  faltering  voice ;  and  she 
looked  out  into  the  yard  with  a  return  of  an 
expression  very  old  and  very  weary.  Fortu 
nately  she  was  short-sighted  and  was  thus 
unable  to  see  her  bouquet  which  made  such 
a  burning  blot  on  the  green  grass,  with  the 
ribbon  trailing  beside  it  and  the  card  still 
holding  on  as  though  determined  to  see  the 
strange  adventure  through  to  the  end. 

"  Good-by,  Anna/'  she  said,  rising  trem 
blingly,  though  at  the  beginning  of  her  visit. 

"  Oh,  good-by,  Harriet,"  replied  Miss 
Anna,  giving  a  cheerful  shake  to  the  yellow 
bowl. 

As  Harriet  walked  slowly  down  the  street, 
a  more  courageously  dressed  woman  than  she 
had  been  for  years,  her  chin  quivered  and  she 
shook  with  sobs  heroically  choked  back. 

Miss  Anna  went  into  the  library  and  sat 
down  near  the  door.  Her  face  which  had 
been  very  white  was  scarlet  again :  "  What 


3 1 8       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

was  it  you  did  —  tell  me  quickly.  I  cannot 
stand  it." 

He  came  over  and  taking  her  cheeks 
between  his  palms  turned  her  face  up  and 
looked  down  into  her  eyes.  But  she  shut 
them  quickly.  "  What  do  you  suppose  I 
did?  Harriet  and  I  sat  for  half  an  hour  in 
another  room.  I  don't  remember  what  I 
did ;  but  it  could  not  have  been  anything 
very  bad  :  others  were  all  around  us." 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  pushed  him 
away  harshly  :  "  I  have  wounded  Harriet  in 
her  most  sensitive  spot ;  and  then  I  insulted 
her  after  I  wounded  her/'  and  she  went 
upstairs. 

Later  he  found  the  bouquet  on  his  library 
table  with  the  card  stuck  in  the  top.  The 
flowers  stayed  there  freshly  watered  till  the 
petals  strewed  his  table  :  they  were  not  even 
dusted  away. 

As  for  Harriet  herself,  the  wound  of  the 
morning  must  have  penetrated  till  it  struck 
some  deep  flint  in  her  composition  ;  for  she 
came  back  the  next  day  in  high  spirits  and 
severely  underdressed  —  in  what  might  be 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       3  i  g 

called  toilet  reduced  to  its  lowest  terms,  like 
a  common  fraction.  She  had  restored  her 
self  to  the  footing  of  an  undervalued  inter 
course.  At  the  sight  of  her  Miss  Anna 
sprang  up,  kissed  her  all  over  the  face,  was 
atoningly  cordial  with  her  arms,  tried  in 
every  way  to  say :  "  See,  Harriet,  I  bare 
my  heart !  Behold  the  dagger  of  remorse  !  " 

Harriet  saw ;  and  she  walked  up  and  took 
the  dagger  by  the  handle  and  twisted  it  to 
the  right  and  to  the  left  and  drove  it  in 
deeper  and  was  glad. 

"  How  do  you  like  this  dress,  Anna  ? " 
she  inquired  with  the  sweetest  solicitude. 
"  Ah,  there  is  no  one  like  a  friend  to  bring 
you  to  your  senses  !  You  were  right.  I  am 
too  old  to  change,  too  old  to  dress,  too  old 
even  to  read :  thank  you,  Anna,  as  always." 

Many  a  wound  of  friendship  heals,  but 
the  wounder  and  the  wounded  are  never  the 
same  to  each  other  afterward.  So  that 
the  two  comrades  were  ill  at  ease  and  wel 
comed  a  diversion  in  the  form  of  a  visitor. 
It  happened  to  be  the  day  of  the  week  when 
Miss  Anna  received  her  supply  of  dairy 


320       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

products  from  the  farm  of  Ambrose  Webb. 
He  came  round  to  the  side  entrance  now 
with  two  shining  tin  buckets  and  two  lustre 
less  eyes. 

The  old  maids  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
porch  with  their  arms  wrapped  around  each 
other,  and  talked  to  him  with  nervous  gayety. 
He  looked  up  with  a  face  of  dumb  yearn 
ing  at  one  and  then  at  the  other,  almost 
impartially. 

"  Aren't  you  well,  Mr.  Webb  ?  "  inquired 
Miss  Anna,  bending  over  toward  him  with  a 
healing  smile. 

"  Certainly  I  am  well,"  he  replied  resent 
fully.  "  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with 
me.  I  am  a  sound  man." 

"  But  you  were  certainly  groaning,"  in 
sisted  Miss  Anna,  "  for  I  heard  you ;  and 
you  must  have  been  groaning  about  some 
thing:1 

He  dropped  his  eyes,  palpably  crestfallen, 
and  scraped  the  bricks  with  one  foot. 

Harriet  nudged  Miss  Anna  not  to  press 
the  point  and  threw  herself  gallantly  into 
the  breach  of  silence. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      321 

"  I  am  coming  out  to  see  you  sometime, 
Mr.  Webb/*  she  said  threateningly ;  "  I 
want  to  find  out  whether  you  are  taking 
good  care  of  my  calf.  Is  she  growing  ? " 

"  Calves  always  grow  till  they  stop,"  said 
Ambrose,  axiomatically. 

"How  high  is  she?" 

He  held  his  hand  up  over  an  imaginary 
back. 

"  Why,  that  is  high !  When  she  stops 
growing,  Anna,  I  am  going  to  sell  her,  sell 
her  by  the  pound.  She  is  my  beef  trust. 
Now  don't  forget,  Mr.  Webb,  that  I  am 
coming  out  some  day." 

cc  I'll  be  there,"  he  said,  and  he  gave  her 
a  peculiar  look. 

"You  know,  Anna,"  said  Harriet,  when 
they  were  alone  again,  "  that  his  wife  treats 
him  shamefully.  I  have  heard  mother  talk 
ing  about  it.  She  says  his  wife  is  the  kind 
of  woman  that  fills  a  house  as  straw  fills  a 
barn :  you  can  see  it  through  every  crack. 
That  accounts  for  his  heavy  expression,  and 
for  his  dull  eyes,  and  for  the  groaning. 
They  say  that  most  of  the  time  he  sits  on 


322       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  fences  when  it  is  clear,  and  goes  into  the 
stable  when  it  rains." 

"  Why,  I'll  have  to  be  kinder  to  him  than 
ever/'  said  Miss  Anna.  "  But  how  do  you 
happen  to  have  a  calf,  Harriet  ?  "  she  added, 
struck  by  the  practical  fact. 

"  It  was  the  gift  of  my  darling  mother, 
my  dear,  the  only  present  she  has  made  me 
that  I  can  remember.  It  was  an  orphan, 
and  you  wouldn't  have  it  in  your  asylum, 
and  my  mother  was  in  a  peculiar  mood,  I 
suppose.  She  amused  herself  with  the  idea 
of  making  me  such  a  present.  But  Anna, 
watch  that  calf,  and  see  if  thereby  does  not 
hang  a  tale.  I  am  sure,  in  some  mysterious 
way,  my  destiny  is  bound  up  with  it.  Calves 
do  have  destinies,  don't  they,  Anna  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,  Harriet!  Inquire 
of  their  Creator ;  or  try  the  market-house." 

It  was  at  the  end  of  this  visit  that  Harriet 
as  usual  imparted  to  Miss  Anna  the  freshest 
information  regarding  affairs  at  home :  that 
Isabel  had  gone  to  spend  the  summer  with 
friends  at  the  seashore,  and  was  to  linger 
with  other  friends  in  the  mountains  during 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       323 

autumn  ;  that  her  mother  had  changed  her 
own  plans,  and  was  to  keep  the  house  open, 
and  had  written  for  the  Fieldings  —  Vic 
tor's  mother  and  brothers  and  sisters  —  to 
come  and  help  fill  the  house  ;  that  every 
thing  was  to  be  very  gay. 

"  I  cannot  fathom  what  is  under  it  all,"  said 
Harriet,  with  her  hand  on  the  side  gate  at 
leaving.  "  But  I  know  that  mother  and  Isabel 
have  quarrelled.  I  believe  mother  has  trans 
ferred  her  affections  —  and  perhaps  her  prop 
erty.  She  has  rewritten  her  will  since  Isabel 
went  away.  What  have  I  to  do,  Anna,  but 
interest  myself  in  other  people's  affairs  ?  I 
have  none  of  my  own.  And  she  never  calls 
Isabel's  name,  but  pets  Victor  from  morning 
till  night.  And  her  expression  sometimes  ! 
I  tell  you,  Anna,  that  when  I  see  it,  if  I  were  a 
bird  and  could  fly,  gunshot  could  not  catch  me. 
I  see  a  summer  before  me  !  If  there  is  ever  a 
chance  of  my  doing  anything^  don't  be  shocked 
if  I  do  it;"  and  in  Harriet's  eyes  there  were 
two  mysterious  sparks  of  hope  —  two  little 
rising  suns. 
"What  did  she  mean?  "pondered  Miss  Anna 


IV 


"  BARBEE,"  said  Judge  Morris  one  morn 
ing  a  fortnight  later,  "  what  has  become  of 
Marguerite  ?  One  night  not  long  ago  you 
complained  of  her  as  an  obstacle  in  the 
path  of  your  career :  does  she  still  annoy 
you  with  her  attentions  ?  You  could  sue 
out  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus  in  your  own 
behalf  if  she  persists.  I'd  take  the  case. 
I  believe  you  asked  me  to  mark  your  de 
meanor  on  the  evening  of  that  party.  I 
tried  to  mark  it ;  but  I  did  not  discover  a 
great  deal  of  demeanor  to  mark." 

The  two  were  sitting  in  the  front  office. 
The  Judge,  with  nothing  to  do,  was  facing 
the  street,  his  snow-white  cambric  handker 
chief  thrown  across  one  knee,  his  hands 
grasping  the  arms  of  his  chair,  the  news 
paper  behind  his  heels,  his  straw  hat  and 
cane  on  the  floor  at  his  side,  and  beside 
them  the  bulldog  —  his  nose  thrust  against 
the  hat. 

324 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       325 

Barbee  was  leaning  over  his  desk  with  his 
fingers  plunged  in  his  hair  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  law  book  before  him  —  un 
opened.  He  turned  and  remarked  with 
dry  candor : 

"  Marguerite  has  dropped  me/* 

"  If  she  has,  it's  a  blessed  thing." 

"There  was  more  depth  to  her  than  I 
thought." 

"  There  always  is.  Wait  until  you  get 
older." 

"  I  shall  have  to  work  and  climb  to  win 
her." 

"  You  might  look  up  meantime  the  twen 
tieth  verse  of  the  twenty-ninth  chapter  of 
Genesis." 

Barbee  rose  and  took  down  a  Bible  from 
among  the  law  books  :  it  had  been  one  of 
the  Judge's  authorities,  a  great  stand-by  for 
reference  and  eloquence  in  his  old  days  of 
pleading.  He  sat  down  and  read  the  verse 
and  laid  the  volume  aside  with  the  mere 
comment:  "All  this  time  I  have  been 
thinking  her  too  much  of  a  child ;  I  find 
that  she  has  been  thinking  the  same  of  me." 


326       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  Then  she  has  been  a  sound  thinker." 

"  The  result  is  she  has  wandered  away 
after  some  one  else.  I  know  the  man ;  and 
I  know  that  he  is  after  some  one  else.  Why 
do  people  desire  the  impossible  person?  If 
I  had  been  a  Greek  sculptor  and  had  been 
commissioned  to  design  as  my  masterwork 
the  world's  Frieze  of  Love,  it  should  have 
been  one  long  array  of  marble  shapes,  each 
in  pursuit  of  some  one  fleeing.  But  some 
day  Marguerite  will  be  found  sitting  pensive 
on  a  stone  —  pursuing  no  longer;  and  when 
I  appear  upon  the  scene,  having  overtaken 
her  at  last,  she  will  sigh,  but  she  will  give 
me  her  hand  and  go  with  me:  and  I'll  have 
to  stand  it.  That  is  the  worst  of  it.  I 
shall  have  to  stand  it  —  that  she  preferred 
the  other  man." 

The  Judge  did  not  care  to  hear  Barbee  on 
American  themes  with  Greek  imagery.  He 
yawned  and  struggled  to  his  feet  with  diffi 
culty.  "I'll  take  a  stroll,"  he  said;  "it  is 
all  I  can  take." 

Barbee  sprang  forward  and  picked  up  for 
him  his  hat  and  cane.  The  dog,  by  what 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       327 

seemed  the  slow  action  of  a  mental  jack- 
screw,  elevated  his  cylinder  to  the  tops  of 
his  legs ;  and  presently  the  two  stiff  old 
bodies  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  one 
slanting,  one  prone :  one  dotting  the  bricks 
with  his  three  legs,  the  other  with  his  four. 

Formerly  the  man  and  the  brute  had  gone 
each  his  own  way,  meeting  only  at  meal 
time  and  at  irregular  hours  of  the  night  in 
the  Judge's  chambers.  The  Judge  had  his 
stories  regarding  the  origin  of  their  intimacy. 
He  varied  these  somewhat  according  to  the 
sensibilities  of  the  persons  to  whom  they 
were  related  —  and  there  were  not  many 
habitues  of  the  sidewalks  who  did  not  hear 
them  sooner  or  later.  No  one  could  dis 
entangle  fact  and  fiction  and  affection  in 
them. 

"  Some  years  ago,"  he  said  one  day  to 
Professor  Hardage,  "  I  was  a  good  deal 
gayer  than  I  am  now  and  so  was  he.  We 
cemented  a  friendship  in  a  certain  way,  no 
matter  what:  that  is  a  story  I'm  not  going 
to  tell.  And  he  came  to  live  with  me  on 
that  footing  of  friendship.  Of  course  he 


328        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

was  greatly  interested  in  the  life  of  his  own 
species  at  that  time ;  he  loved  part  of  it,  he 
hated  part ;  but  he  was  no  friend  to  either. 
By  and  by  he  grew  older.  Age  removed 
a  good  deal  of  his  vanity,  and  I  suppose  it 
forced  him  to  part  with  some  portion  of  his 
self-esteem.  But  I  was  growing  older  my 
self  and  no  doubt  getting  physically  a  little 
helpless.  I  suppose  I  made  senile  noises 
when  I  dressed  and  undressed,  expressive 
of  my  decorative  labors.  This  may  have 
been  the  reason ;  possibly  not ;  but  at  any 
rate  about  this  time  he  conceived  it  his 
duty  to  give  up  his  friendship  as  an  equal 
and  to  enter  my  employ  as  a  servant.  He 
became  my  valet  —  without  wages  —  and  I 
changed  his  name  to  c  Brown/ 

"  Of  course  you  don't  think  this  true ; 
well,  then,  don't  think  it  true.  But  you 
have  never  seen  him  of  winter  mornings 
get  up  before  I  do  and  try  to  keep  me  out 
of  the  bath-tub.  He'll  station  himself  at  the 
bath-room  door ;  and  as  I  approach  he  will 
look  at  me  with  an  air  of  saying  : (  Now  don't 
climb  into  that  cold  water !  Stand  on  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       329 

edge  of  it  and  lap  it  if  you  wish  !  But  don't 
get  into  it.  Drink  it,  man,  don't  wallow  in 
it.'  He  waits  until  I  finish,  and  then  he 
speaks  his  mind  plainly  again :  c  Now  see 
how  wet  you  are !  And  to-morrow  you 
will  do  the  same  thing.'  And  he  will  stalk 
away,  suspicious  of  the  grade  of  my  intelli 
gence. 

"  He  helps  me  to  dress  and  undress. 
You'd  know  this  if  you  studied  his  face 
when  I  struggle  to  brush  the  dust  off  of 
my  back  and  shoulders :  the  mortification, 
the  sense  of  injustice  done  him,  in  his  hav 
ing  been  made  a  quadruped.  When  I  stoop 
over  to  take  off  my  shoes,  if  I  do  it  without 
any  noise  and  he  lies  anywhere  near,  very 
well ;  but  if  I  am  noisy  about  it,  he  always 
comes  and  takes  a  seat  before  me  and  assists. 
Then  he  makes  his  same  speech :  c  What  a 
shame  that  you  should  have  to  do  this  for 
yourself,  when  I  am  here  to  do  it  for  you, 
but  have  no  hands.' 

"You  know  his  portrait  in  my  sitting 
room.  When  it  was  brought  home  and  he 
discovered  it  on  the  wall,  he  looked  at  it 


33°       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

from  different  angles,  and  then  came  across 
to  me  with  a  wound  and  a  grievance  :  c  Why 
have  you  put  that  thing  there?  How  can 
you,  who  have  me,  tolerate  such  a  looking 
object  as  that?  See  the  meanness  in  his 
face !  See  how  used  up  he  is  and  how 
sick  of  life  !  See  what  a  history  is  written 
all  over  him  —  his  crimes  and  disgraces ! 
And  you  can  care  for  him  when  you  have  mey 
your  Brown/  After  I  am  dead,  I  expect 
him  to  publish  a  memorial  volume  entitled 
c  Reminiscences  of  the  late  Judge  Ravenel 
Morris.  By  his  former  Friend,  afterward 
his  Valet,  Taurus-Cams' ' 

The  long  drowsing  days  of  summer  had 
come.  Business  was  almost  suspended ; 
heat  made  energy  impossible.  Court  was 
not  in  session,  farmers  were  busy  with  crops. 
From  early  morning  to  late  afternoon  the 
streets  were  well-nigh  deserted. 

Ravenel  Morris  found  life  more  active  for 
him  during  this  idlest  season  of  his  native 
town.  Having  no  business  to  prefer,  people 
were  left  more  at  leisure  to  talk  with  him  ; 
more  acquaintances  sat  fanning  on  their  door- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      331 

steps  and  bade  him  good  night  as  he  passed 
homeward.  There  were  festivals  in  the 
park ;  and  he  could  rest  on  one  of  the 
benches  and  listen  to  the  band  playing 
tunes.  He  had  the  common  human  heart 
in  its  love  of  tunes.  When  tunes  stopped, 
music  stopped  for  him.  If  anything  were 
played  in  which  there  was  no  traceable 
melody,  when  the  instruments  encountered 
a  tumult  of  chords  and  dissonances,  he  would 
exclaim  though  with  regretful  toleration : 
"  What  are  they  trying  to  do  now  ?  What 
is  it  all  about  ?  Why  can't  music  be  simple 
and  sweet?  Do  noise  and  confusion  make 
it  better  or  greater  ?  " 

One  night  Barbee  had  him  serenaded.  He 
gave  the  musicians  instruction  as  to  the  tunes, 
how  they  were  to  be  played,  in  what  succes 
sion,  at  what  hour  of  the  night.  The  melo 
dists  grouped  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  and  the  Judge  came  out  on  a  little 
veranda  under  one  of  his  doors  and  stood 
there,  a  great  silver-haired  figure,  looking 
down.  The  moonlight  shone  upon  him. 
He  remained  for  a  while  motionless,  wrapped 


332       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

loosely  in  what  looked  like  a  white  toga. 
Then  with  a  slight  gesture  of  the  hand 
full  of  mournful  dignity  he  withdrew. 

It  was  during  these  days  that  Barbee, 
who  always  watched  over  him  with  a  most 
reverent  worship  and  affection,  made  a  dis 
covery.  The  Judge  was  breaking ;  that 
brave  life  was  beginning  to  sink  and  totter 
toward  its  fall  and  dissolution.  There  were 
moments  when  the  cheerfulness,  which  had 
never  failed  him  in  the  midst  of  trial,  failed 
him  now  when  there  was  none ;  when  the 
ancient  springs  of  strength  ceased  to  run 
and  he  was  discovered  to  be  feeble.  Some 
times  he  no  longer  read  his  morning  news 
paper  ;  he  would  sit  for  long  periods  in  the 
front  door  of  his  office,  looking  out  into  the 
street  and  caring  not  who  passed,  not  even 
returning  salutations  :  what  was  the  use  of 
saluting  the  human  race  impartially  ?  Or 
going  into  the  rear  office,  he  would  reread 
pages  and  chapters  of  what  at  different  times 
in  his  life  had  been  his  favorite  books: 
"Rabelais"  and  "The  Decameron"  when 
he  was  young;  "Don  Quixote"  later,  and 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       333 

"Faust";  "Clarissa"  and  "Tom  Jones" 
now  and  then  ;  and  Shakespeare  always  ;  and 
those  poems  of  Burns  that  tell  sad  truths ; 
and  the  account  of  the  man  in  Thackeray 
who  went  through  so  much  that  was  large 
and  at  the  end  of  life  was  brought  down  to 
so  much  that  was  low.  He  seemed  more 
and  more  to  feel  the  need  of  grasping  through 
books  the  hand  of  erring  humanity.  And 
from  day  to  day  his  conversations  with  Barbee 
began  to  take  more  the  form  of  counsels  about 
life  and  duty,  about  the  ideals  and  mistakes 
and  virtues  and  weaknesses  in  men.  He  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  about  the  ethics  of  charac 
ter  in  the  court  room  and  in  the  street. 

One  afternoon  Barbee  very  thoughtfully 
asked  him  a  question :  "  Uncle,  I  have 
wanted  to  know  why  you  always  defended 
and  never  prosecuted.  The  State  is  sup 
posed  to  stand  for  justice,  and  the  State  is 
the  accuser ;  in  always  defending  the  accused 
and  so  in  working  against  the  State,  have 
you  not  always  worked  against  justice  ?  " 

The  Judge  sat  with  his  face  turned  away 
and  spoke  as  he  sat  —  very  gravely  and 


334       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

quietly :  "  I  always  defended  because  the 
State  can  punish  only  the  accused,  and 
the  accused  is  never  the  only  criminal.  In 
every  crime  there  are  three  criminals.  The 
first  criminal  is  the  Origin  of  Evil.  I  don't 
know  what  the  Origin  of  Evil  is,  or  who  he 
is ;  but  if  I  could  have  dragged  the  Origin 
of  Evil  into  the  court  room,  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  try  to  have  it  hanged,  or  have 
him  hanged.  I  should  have  liked  to  argue 
the  greatest  of  all  possible  criminal  cases : 
the  case  of  the  Common  People  vs.  the 
Devil  —  so  nominated.  The  second  crimi 
nal  is  all  that  coworked  with  the  accused 
as  involved  in  his  nature,  in  his  temptation, 
and  in  his  act.  If  I  could  have  arraigned  all 
the  other  men  and  women  who  have  been 
forerunners  or  copartners  of  the  accused 
as  furthering  influences  in  the  line  of  his 
offence,  I  should  gladly  have  prosecuted 
them  for  their  share  of  the  guilt.  But  most 
of  the  living  who  are  accessory  can  no  more 
be  discovered  and  summoned  than  can  the 
dead  who  also  were  accessory.  You  have 
left  the  third  criminal ;  and  the  State  is 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       335 

forced  to  single  him  out  and  let  the  full 
punishment  fall  upon  him  alone.  Thus  it 
does  not  punish  the  guilty  —  it  punishes 
the  last  of  the  guilty.  It  does  not  even 
punish  him  for  his  share  of  the  guilt :  it 
can  never  know  what  that  share  is.  This  is 
merely  a  feeling  of  mine,  I  do  not  uphold  it. 
Of  course  I  often  declined  to  defend  also." 

They  returned  to  this  subject  another 
afternoon  as  the  two  sat  together  a  few  days 
later : 

"  There  was  sometimes  another  reason 
why  I  felt  unwilling  to  prosecute :  I  refer 
to  cases  in  which  I  might  be  taking  advan 
tage  of  the  inability  of  a  fellow-creature  to 
establish  his  own  innocence.  I  want  you 
to  remember  this  —  nothing  that  I  have 
ever  said  to  you  is  of  more  importance :  a 
good  many  years  ago  I  was  in  Paris.  One 
afternoon  I  was  walking  through  the  most 
famous  streets  in  the  company  of  a  French 
scholar  and  journalist,  a  deep  student  of  the 
genius  of  French  civilization.  As  we  passed 
along,  he  pointed  out  various  buildings  with 
reference  to  the  history  that  had  been  made 


336       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

and  unmade  within  them.  At  one  point  he 
stopped  and  pointed  to  a  certain  structure 
with  a  high  wall  in  front  of  it  and  to  a  hole 
in  that  wall.  £  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ? ' 
he  asked.  He  told  me.  Any  person  can 
drop  a  letter  into  that  box,  containing  any 
kind  of  accusation  against  any  other  person  ; 
it  is  received  by  the  authorities  and  it  be 
comes  their  duty  to  act  upon  its  contents. 
Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?  Can  you 
for  a  moment  realize  what  is  involved  ?  A 
man's  enemy,  even  his  so-called  religious 
enemy,  any  assassin,  any  slanderer,  any  liar, 
even  the  mercenary  who  agrees  to  hire  out 
his  honor  itself  for  the  wages  of  a  slave, 
can  deposit  an  anonymous  accusation  against 
any  one  whom  he  hates  or  wishes  to  ruin ; 
and  it  becomes  the  duty  of  the  authorities 
to  respect  his  communication  as  much  as 
though  it  came  before  a  court  of  highest 
equity.  An  innocent  man  may  thus  become 
an  object  of  suspicion,  may  be  watched,  fol 
lowed,  arrested  and  thrown  into  prison,  dis 
graced,  ruined  in  his  business,  ruined  in  his 
family  ;  and  if  in  the  end  he  is  released,  he 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       337 

is  never  even  told  what  he  has  been  charged 
with,  has  no  power  of  facing  his  accuser,  of 
bringing  him  to  justice,  of  recovering  dam 
ages  from  the  State.  While  he  himself  is 
kept  in  close  confinement,  his  enemy  may 
manufacture  evidence  which  he  alone  would 
be  able  to  disprove ;  and  the  chance  is  never 
given  him  to  disprove  it." 

The  Judge  turned  and  looked  at  Barbee 
in  simple  silence. 

Barbee  sprang  to  his  feet :  "  It  is  a 
damned  shame  !  "  he  cried.  "  Damn  the 
French !  damn  such  a  civilization." 

"Why  damn  the  French  code?  In  our 
own  country  the  same  thing  goes  on,  not  as 
part  of  our  system  of  jurisprudence,  but  as 
part  of  our  system  of — well,  we'll  say  — 
morals.  In  this  country  any  man's  secret 
personal  enemy,  his  so-called  religious  en 
emy  for  instance,  may  fabricate  any  accusa 
tion  against  him.  He  does  not  drop  it  into 
the  dark  crevice  of  a  dead  wall,  but  into  the 
blacker  hole  of  a  living  ear.  A  perfectly 
innocent  man  by  such  anonymous  or  un- 
traceable  slander  can  be  as  grossly  injured 


338       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

in  reputation,  in  business,  in  his  family,  out 
of  a  prison  in  this  country  as  in  a  prison  in 
France.  Slander  may  circulate  about  him 
and  he  will  never  even  know  what  it  is, 
never  be  confronted  by  his  accuser,  never 
have  power  of  redress. 

"  Now  what  I  wish  you  to  remember  is 
this  :  that  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case  a 
man  is  often  unable  to  prove  his  innocence. 
All  over  the  world  useful  careers  come  to 
nothing  and  lives  are  wrecked,  because  men 
may  be  ignorantly  or  malignantly  accused  of 
things  of  which  they  cannot  stand  up  and 
prove  that  they  are  innocent.  Never  forget 
that  it  is  impossible  for  a  man  finally  to  de 
monstrate  his  possession  of  a  single  great 
virtue.  A  man  cannot  so  prove  his  bravery. 
He  cannot  so  prove  his  honesty  or  his  be 
nevolence  or  his  sobriety  or  his  chastity,  or 
anything  else.  As  to  courage,  all  that  he 
can  prove  is  that  in  a  given  case  or  in  all 
tested  cases  he  was  not  a  coward.  As  to 
honesty,  all  that  he  can  prove  is  that  in  any 
alleged  instance  he  was  not  a  thief.  A  man 
cannot  even  directly  prove  his  health,  mental 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       339 

or  physical  :  all  that  he  can  prove  is  that  he 
shows  no  unmistakable  evidences  of  disease. 
But  an  enemy  may  secretly  circulate  the 
charge  that  these  evidences  exist ;  and  all  the 
evidences  to  the  contrary  that  the  man  him 
self  may  furnish  will  never  disperse  that  im 
pression.  It  is  so  for  every  great  virtue. 
His  final  possession  of  a  single  virtue  can  be 
proved  by  no  man. 

"  This  was  another  reason  why  I  was 
sometimes  unwilling  to  prosecute  a  fellow- 
creature  ;  it  might  be  a  case  in  which  he  alone 
would  actually  know  whether  he  were  inno 
cent  ;  but  his  simple  word  would  not  be 
taken,  and  his  simple  word  would  be  the  only 
proof  that  he  could  give.  I  ask  you,  as  you 
care  for  my  memory,  never  to  take  advan 
tage  of  the  truth  that  the  man  before  you, 
as  the  accused,  may  in  the  nature  of  things 
be  unable  to  prove  his  innocence.  Some  day 
you  are  going  to  be  a  judge.  Remember 
you  are  always  a  judge ;  and  remember  that 
a  greater  Judge  than  you  will  ever  be  gave 
you  the  rule :  'Judge  as  you  would  be 
judged/  The  great  root  of  the  matter  is 


340       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

this  :  that  all  human  conduct  is  judged  7  but 
a  very  small  part  of  human  conduct  is  ever 
brought  to  trial. " 

He  had  many  visitors  at  his  office  during 
these  idle  summer  days.  He  belonged  to  a 
generation  of  men  who  loved  conversation  — 
when  they  conversed.  All  the  lawyers 
dropped  in.  The  report  of  his  failing 
strength  brought  these  and  many  others. 

He  saw  a  great  deal  of  Professor  Hardage^ 
One  morning  as  the  two  met,  he  said  with 
more  feeling  than  he  usually  allowed  himself 
to  show :  "  Hardage,  I  am  a  lonesome  old 
man ;  don't  you  want  me  to  come  and  see 
you  every  Sunday  evening  ?  I  always  try  to 
get  home  by  ten  o'clock,  so  that  you  couldn't 
get  tired  of  me ;  and  as  I  never  fall  asleep 
before  that  time,  you  wouldn't  have  to  put  me 
to  bed.  I  want  to  hear  you  talk,  Hardage. 
My  time  is  limited  ;  and  you  have  no  right  to 
shut  out  from  me  so  much  that  you  know  — 
your  learning,  your  wisdom,  yourself.  And 
I  know  a  few  things  that  I  have  picked  up 
in  a  lifetime.  Surely  we  ought  to  have 
something  to  say  to  each  other." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       341 

But  when  he  came,  Professor  Hardagewas 
glad  to  let  him  find  relief  in  his  monologues 
—  fragments  of  self-revelation.  This  last 
phase  of  their  friendship  had  this  added 
significance :  that  the  Judge  no  longer  spent 
his  Sunday  evenings  with  Mrs.  Conyers. 
The  last  social  link  binding  him  to  woman 
kind  had  been  broken.  It  was  a  final  loosen 
ing  and  he  felt  it,  felt  the  desolation  in  which 
it  left  him.  His  cup  of  life  had  indeed  been 
drained,  and  he  turned  away  from  the  dregs. 

One  afternoon  Professor  Hardage  found 
him  sitting  with  his  familiar  Shakespeare  on 
his  knees.  As  he  looked  up,  he  stretched 
out  his  hand  in  eager  welcome  and  said : 
"  Listen  once  more  ; "  and  he  read  the  great 
kindling  speech  of  King  Henry  to  his  Eng 
lish  yeomen  on  the  eve  of  battle. 

He  laid  the  book  aside. 

"  Of  course  you  have  noticed  how  Shake 
speare  likes  this  word  c  mettle/  how  he 
likes  the  thing.  The  word  can  be  seen  from 
afar  over  the  vast  territory  of  his  plays  like 
the  same  battle-flag  set  up  in  different  parts 
of  a  field.  It  is  conspicuous  in  the  heroic 


342        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

English  plays,  and  in  the  Roman  and  in  the 
Greek ;  it  waves  alike  over  comedy  and 
tragedy  as  a  rallying  signal  to  human  nature. 
I  imagine  I  can  see  his  face  as  he  writes  of 
the  mettle  of  children  —  the  mettle  of  a  boy 
—  the  quick  mettle  of  a  schoolboy  —  a  lad 
of  mettle  —  the  mettle  of  a  gentleman  —  the 
mettle  of  the  sex  —  the  mettle  of  a  woman, 
Lady  Macbeth  —  the  mettle  of  a  king  —  the 
mettle  of  a  speech  —  even  the  mettle  of  a 
rascal —  mettle  in  death.  I  love  to  think  of 
him,  a  man  who  had  known  trouble,  writing 
the  words  :  c  The  insuppressive  mettle  of  our 
spirits/ 

"  But  this  particular  phrase  —  the  mettle 
of  the  pasture  —  belongs  rather  to  our  cen 
tury  than  to  his,  more  to  Darwin  than  to  the 
theatre  of  that  time.  What  most  men  are 
thinking  of  now,  if  they  think  at  all,  is  of 
our  earth,  a  small  grass-grown  planet  hung 
in  space.  And,  unaccountably  making  his 
appearance  on  it,  is  man,  a  pasturing  animal, 
deriving  his  mettle  from  his  pasture.  The 
old  question  comes  newly  up  to  us :  Is 
anything  ever  added  to  him  ?  Is  anything 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       343 

ever  lost  to  him  ?  Evolution  —  is  it  any 
thing  more  than  change  ?  Civilizations  — 
are  they  anything  but  different  arrangements 
of  the  elements  of  man's  nature  with  refer 
ence  to  the  preeminence  of  some  elements 
and  the  subsidence  of  others  ? 

"  Suppose  you  take  the  great  passions : 
what  new  one  has  been  added,  what  old  one 
has  been  lost?  Take  all  the  passions  you 
find  in  Greek  literature,  in  the  Roman. 
Have  you  not  seen  them  reappear  in 
American  life  in  your  own  generation  ?  I 
believe  I  have  met  them  in  my  office.  You 
may  think  I  have  not  seen  Paris  and  Helen, 
but  I  have.  And  I  have  seen  Orestes  and 
Agamemnon  and  Clytemnestra  and  CEdi- 
pus.  Do  you  suppose  I  have  not  met  Tar- 
quin  and  Virginia  and  Lucretia  and  Shylock 
—  to  come  down  to  nearer  times  —  and  seen 
Lear  and  studied  Macbeth  in  the  flesh  ?  I 
knew  Juliet  once,  and  behind  locked  doors  I 
have  talked  with  Romeo.  They  are  all  here 
in  any  American  commonwealth  at  the  close 
of  our  century :  the  great  tragedies  are  num 
bered  —  the  oldest  are  the  newest.  So  that 


344        Tfie  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

sometimes  I  fix  my  eyes  only  on  the  old.  I 
see  merely  the  planet  with  its  middle  green 
belt  of  pasture  and  its  poles  of  snow  and  ice  ; 
and  wandering  over  that  green  belt  for  a 
little  while  man  the  pasturing  animal  —  with 
the  mystery  of  his  ever  being  there  and  the 
mystery  of  his  dust  —  with  nothing  ever 
added  to  him,  nothing  ever  lost  out  of  him 
—  his  only  power  being  but  the  power  to 
vary  the  uses  of  his  powers. 

"  Then  there  is  the  other  side,  the  side  of 
the  new.  I  like  to  think  of  the  marvels  that 
the  pasturing  animal  has  accomplished  in 
our  own  country.  He  has  had  new  thoughts, 
he  has  done  things  never  seen  elsewhere  or 
before.  But  after  all  the  question  remains, 
what  is  our  characteristic  mettle  ?  What  is 
the  mettle  of  the  American  ?  He  has  had 
new  ideas ;  but  has  he  developed  a  new 
virtue  or  carried  any  old  virtue  forward  to 
characteristic  development?  Has  he  added 
to  the  civilizations  of  Europe  the  spectacle 
of  a  single  virtue  transcendently  exercised  ? 
We  are  not  braver  than  other  brave  people, 
we  are  not  more  polite,  we  are  not  more 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       345 

honest  or  more  truthful  or  more  sincere  or 
kind.  I  wish  to  God  that  some  virtue,  say 
the  virtue  of  truthfulness,  could  be  known 
throughout  the  world  as  the  unfailing  mark 
of  the  American  —  the  mettle  of  his  pasture. 
Not  to  lie  in  business,  not  to  lie  in  love, 
not  to  lie  in  religion  —  to  be  honest  with 
one's  fellow-men,  with  women,  with  God  — 
suppose  the  rest  of  mankind  would  agree 
that  this  virtue  constituted  the  characteristic 
of  the  American  !  That  would  be  fame  for 
ages. 

"  I  believe  that  we  shall  sometime  become 
celebrated  for  preeminence  in  some  virtue. 
Why,  I  have  known  young  fellows  in  my 
office  that  I  have  believed  unmatched  for 
some  fine  trait  or  noble  quality.  You  have 
met  them  in  your  classes." 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  remained  silent 
for  a  while. 

"Have  you  seen  Rowan  lately?"  he 
asked,  with  frank  uneasiness  :  and  receiving 
the  reply  which  he  dreaded,  he  soon  after 
ward  arose  and  passed  brokenly  down  the 
street. 


346        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

For  some  weeks  now  he  had  been  missing 
Rowan  ;  and  this  was  the  second  cause  of 
his  restlessness  and  increasing  loneliness. 
The  failure  of  Rowan's  love  affair  was  a  blow 
to  him :  it  had  so  linked  him  to  the  life 
of  the  young  —  was  the  last  link.  And  since 
then  he  had  looked  for  Rowan  in  vain ;  he 
had  waited  for  him  of  mornings  at  his  office, 
had  searched  for  him  on  the  streets,  scanning 
all  young  men  on  horseback  or  in  buggies ; 
had  tried  to  find  him  in  the  library,  at  the 
livery  stable,  at  the  bank  where  he  was 
a  depositor  and  director.  There  was  no 
ground  for  actual  uneasiness  concerning 
Rowan's  health,  for  Rowan's  neighbors  as 
sured  him  in  response  to  his  inquiries  that 
he  was  well  and  at  work  on  the  farm. 

"  If  he  is  in  trouble,  why  does  he  not 
come  and  tell  me  ?  Am  I  not  worth  coming 
to  see?  Has  he  not  yet  understood  what 
he  is  to  me  ?  But  how  can  he  know,  how  can 
the  young  ever  know  how  the  old  love  them  ? 
And  the  old  are  too  proud  to  tell."  He 
wrote  letters  and  tore  them  up. 

As  we  stand  on  the  rear  platform  of  a  train 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       347 

and  see  the  mountains  away  from  which  we 
are  rushing  rise  and  impend  as  if  to  over 
whelm  us,  so  in  moving  farther  from  his 
past  very  rapidly  now,  it  seemed  to  follow 
him  as  a  landscape  growing  always  nearer 
and  clearer.  His  mind  dwelt  more  on  the 
years  when  hatred  had  so  ruined  him,  cost 
ing  him  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  asked 
to  be  his  wife,  costing  him  a  fuller  life, 
greater  honors,  children  to  leave  behind. 

He  was  sitting  alone  in  his  rear  office  the 
middle  of  one  afternoon,  alone  among  his 
books.  He  had  outspread  before  him  several 
that  are  full  of  youth.  Barbee  was  away,  the 
street  was  very  quiet.  No  one  dropped  in  — 
perhaps  all  were  tired  of  hearing  him  talk.  It 
was  not  yet  the  hour  for  Professor  Hardage 
to  walk  in.  A  watering-cart  creaked  slowly 
past  the  door  and  the  gush  of  the  drops  of 
water  sounded  like  a  shower  and  the  smell 
of  the  dust  was  strong.  Far  away  in  some 
direction  were  heard  the  cries  of  school  chil 
dren  at  play  in  the  street.  A  bell  was  toll 
ing  ;  a  green  fly,  entering  through  the  rear 
door,  sang  loud  on  the  dusty  window-panes 


348        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

and  then  flew  out  and  alighted  on  a  plant 
of  nightshade  springing  up  rank  at  the  door 
step. 

He  was  not  reading  and  his  thoughts  were 
the  same  old  thoughts.  At  length  on  the 
quiet  air,  coming  nearer,  were  heard  the  easy 
roll  of  wheels  and  the  slow  measured  step  of 
carriage  horses.  The  sound  caught  his  ear 
and  he  listened  with  quick  eagerness.  Then 
he  rose  trembling  and  waited.  The  carriage 
had  stopped  at  the  door ;  a  moment  later 
there  was  a  soft  low  knock  on  the  lintel  and 
Mrs.  Meredith  entered.  He  met  her  but 
she  said :  "  May  I  go  in  there  ? "  and  entered 
the  private  office. 

She  brought  with  her  such  grace  and 
sweetness  of  full  womanly  years  that  as  she 
seated  herself  opposite  him  and  lifted  her 
veil  away  from  the  purity  of  her  face,  it  was 
like  the  revelation  of  a  shrine  and  the  office 
became  as  a  place  of  worship.  She  lifted 
the  veil  from  the  dignity  and  seclusion  of 
her  life.  She  did  not  speak  at  once  but 
looked  about  her.  Many  years  had  passed 
since  she  had  entered  that  office,  for  it  had 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       349 

long  ago  seemed  best  to  each  of  them  that 
they  should  never  meet.  He  had  gone 
back  to  his  seat  at  the  desk  with  the  opened 
books  lying  about  him  as  though  he  had 
been  searching  one  after  another  for  the  lost 
fountain  of  youth.  He  sat  there  looking 
at  her,  his  white  hair  falling  over  his  leonine 
head  and  neck,  over  his  clear  mournful  eyes. 
The  sweetness  of  his  face,  the  kindness  of  it, 
the  shy,  embarrassed,  almost  guilty  look  on 
it  from  the  old  pain  of  being  misunderstood 
—  the  terrible  pathos  of  it  all,  she  saw  these  ; 
but  whatever  her  emotions,  she  was  not  a 
woman  to  betray  them  at  such  a  moment, 
in  such  a  place. 

"  I  do  not  come  on  business,"  she  said. 
"  All  the  business  seems  to  have  been  at 
tended  to ;  life  seems  very  easy,  too  easy  : 
I  have  so  little  to  do.  But  I  am  here, 
Ravenel,  and  I  suppose  I  must  try  to  say 
what  brought  me." 

She  waited  for  some  time,  unable  to 
speak. 

"  Ravenel,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  cannot 
go  on  any  longer  without  telling  you  that 


350       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

my  great  sorrow  in  life  has  been  the  wrong 
I  did  you." 

He  closed  his  eyes  quickly  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  against  her,  as  though  to  shut 
out  the  vision  of  things  that  rose  before  him 
—  as  though  to  stop  words  that  would  un 
man  him. 

"  But  I  was  a  young  girl !  And  what 
does  a  young  girl  understand  about  her 
duty  in  things  like  that  ?  I  know  it  changed 
your  whole  life ;  you  will  never  know  what 
it  has  meant  in  mine." 

"  Caroline,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  brimming  eyes,  "  if  you  had  married 
me,  I'd  have  been  a  great  man.  I  was  not 
great  enough  to  be  great  without  you.  The 
single  road  led  the  wrong  way  —  to  the 
wrong  things ! " 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  I  know  it  all.  And 
I  know  that  tears  do  not  efface  mistakes, 
and  that  our  prayers  do  not  atone  for  our 
wrongs." 

She  suddenly  dropped  her  veil  and  rose. 

"  Do  not  come  out  to  help  me,"  she  said 
as  he  struggled  up  also. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       3  5 1 

He  did  not  wish  to  go,  and  he  held  out 
his  hand  and  she  folded  her  soft  pure  hands 
about  it ;  then  her  large  noble  figure  moved 
to  the  side  of  his  and  through  her  veil  —  her 
love  and  sorrow  hidden  from  him  —  she 
lifted  her  face  and  kissed  him. 


AND  during  these  days  when  Judge 
Morris  was  speaking  his  mind  about  old 
tragedies  that  never  change,  and  new  virtues 
—  about  scandal  and  guilt  and  innocence  — 
it  was  during  these  days  that  the  scandal 
started  and  spread  and  did  its  work  on  the 
boy  he  loved  —  and  no  one  had  told  him. 

The  summer  was  drawing  to  an  end. 
During  the  last  days  of  it  Kate  wrote  to 
Isabel : 

"  I  could  not  have  believed,  dearest  friend, 
that  so  long  a  time  would  pass  without  my 
writing.  Since  you  went  away  it  has  been 
eternity.  And  many  things  have  occurred 
which  no  one  foresaw  or  imagined.  I  can 
not  tell  you  how  often  I  have  resisted  the 
impulse  to  write.  Perhaps  I  should  resist 
now ;  but  there  are  some  matters  which  you 
ought  to  understand  ;  and  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  one  else  has  told  you  or  will  tell 
you.  If  I,  your  closest  friend,  have  shrunk, 
352 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       353 

how  could  any  one  else  be  expected  to  per 
form  the  duty  ? 

"  A  week  or  two  after  you  left  I  under 
stood  why  you  went  away  mysteriously,  and 
why  during  that  last  visit  to  me  you  were 
unlike  yourself.  I  did  not  know  then  that 
your  gayety  was  assumed,  and  that  you  were 
broken-hearted  beneath  your  brave  dis 
guises.  But  I  remember  your  saying  that 
some  day  I  should  know.  The  whole  truth 
has  come  out  as  to  why  you  broke  your  en 
gagement  with  Rowan,  and  why  you  left 
home.  You  can  form  no  idea  what  a  sensa 
tion  the  news  produced.  For  a. while  noth 
ing  else  was  talked  of,  and  I  am  glad  for 
your  sake  that  you  were  not  here. 

"  I  say  the  truth  came  out ;  but  even  now 
the  town  is  full  of  different  stories,  and  dif 
ferent  people  believe  different  things.  But 
every  friend  of  yours  feels  perfectly  sure  that 
Rowan  was  unworthy  of  you,  and  that  you 
did  right  in  discarding  him.  It  is  safe  to 
say  that  he  has  few  friends  left  among  yours. 
He  seldom  comes  to  town,  and  I  hear  that 
he  works  on  the  farm  like  a  common  hand 

2A 


354       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

as  he  should.  One  day  not  long  after  you 
left  I  met  him  on  the  street.  He  was  com 
ing  straight  up  to  speak  to  me  as  usual. 
But  I  had  the  pleasure  of  staring  him  in  the 
eyes  and  of  walking  deliberately  past  him 
as  though  he  were  a  stranger  —  except  that 
I  gave  him  one  explaining  look.  I  shall 
never  speak  to  him. 

"  His  mother  has  the  greatest  sympathy 
of  every  one.  They  say  that  no  one  has  told 
her  the  truth  :  how  could  any  one  tell  her 
such  things  about  her  own  son  ?  Of  course 
she  must  know  that  you  dropped  him  and 
that  we  have  all  dropped  him.  They  say 
that  she  is  greatly  saddened  and  that  her 
health  seems  to  be  giving  way. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  heard 
the  other  sensation  regarding  the  Meredith 
family.  You  refused  Rowan  ;  and  now  Dent 
is  going  to  marry  a  common  girl  in  the 
neighborhood.  Of  course  Dent  Meredith 
was  always  noted  for  being  a  quiet  little 
bookworm,  near-sighted,  and  without  any 
knowledge  of  girls.  So  it  doesn't  seem  very 
unnatural  for  him  to  have  collected  the  first 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       355 

specimen  that  he  came  across  as  he  walked 
about  over  the  country.  This  marriage  which 
is  to  take  place  in  the  autumn  is  the  second 
shock  to  his  mother. 

"You  will  want  to  hear  of  other  people. 
And  this  reminds  me  that  a  few  of  your 
friends  have  turned  against  you  and  insist 
that  these  stories  about  Rowan  are  false,  and 
even  accuse  you  of  starting  them.  This 
brings  me  to  Marguerite. 

"  Soon  after  her  ball  she  had  typhoid 
fever.  In  her  delirium  of  whom  do  you 
suppose  she  incessantly  and  pitifully  talked  ? 
Every  one  had  supposed  that  she  and  Barbee 
were  sweethearts  —  and  had  been  for  years. 
But  Barbee's  name  was  never  on  her  lips. 
It  was  all  Rowan,  Rowan,  Rowan.  Poor 
child,  she  chided  him  for  being  so  cold  to 
her ;  and  she  talked  to  him  about  the  river 
of  life  and  about  his  starting  on  the  long 
voyage  from  the  house  of  his  fathers ;  and 
begged  to  be  taken  with  him,  and  said  that 
in  their  family  the  women  never  loved  but 
once.  When  she  grew  convalescent,  there 
was  a  consultation  of  the  grandmother  and 


356       The   Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

the  mother  and  the  doctors :  one  passion 
now  seemed  to  constitute  all  that  was  left 
of  Marguerite's  life ;  and  that  was  like  a 
flame  burning  her  strength  away. 

"  They  did  as  the  doctor  said  had  to  be 
done.  Mrs.  Meredith  had  been  very  kind 
during  her  illness,  had  often  been  to  the 
house.  They  kept  from  her  of  course  all 
knowledge  of  what  Marguerite  had  disclosed 
in  her  delirium.  So  when  Marguerite  by 
imperceptible  degrees  grew  stronger,  Mrs. 
Meredith  begged  that  she  might  be  moved 
out  to  the  country  for  the  change  and  the 
coolness  and  the  quiet ;  and  th'e  doctors 
availed  themselves  of  this  plan  as  a  solution 
of  their  difficulty  —  to  lessen  Marguerite's 
consuming  desire  by  gratifying  it.  So  she 
and  her  mother  went  out  to  the  Merediths'. 
The  change  proved  beneficial.  I  have  not 
been  driving  myself,  although  the  summer 
has  been  so  long  and  hot ;  and  during  the 
afternoons  I  have  so  longed  to  see  the  cool 
green  lanes  with  the  sun  setting  over  the 
fields.  But  of  course  people  drive  a  great 
deal  and  they  often  meet  Mrs.  Meredith 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture     357 

with  Marguerite  in  the  carriage  beside  her. 
At  first  it  was  Marguerite's  mother  and  Mar 
guerite.  Then  it  was  Mrs.  Meredith  and 
Marguerite ;  and  now  it  is  Rowan  and  Mar 
guerite.  They  drive  alone  and  she  sits  with 
her  face  turned  toward  him —  in  open  idol 
atry.  She  is  to  stay  out  there  until  she  is 
quite  well.  How  curiously  things  work 
around  !  If  he  ever  proposes,  scandal  will 
make  no  difference  to  Marguerite. 

"  How  my  letter  wanders !  But  so  do 
my  thoughts  wander.  If  you  only  knew, 
while  I  write  these  things,  how  I  am  really 
thinking  of  other  things.  But  I  must  go 
on  in  my  round-about  way.  What  I  started 
out  to  say  was  that  when  the  scandals,  I 
mean  the  truth,  spread  over  the  town  about 
Rowan,  the  three  Marguerites  stood  by  him. 
You  could  never  have  believed  that  the  child 
had  such  fire  and  strength  and  devotion  in 
her  nature.  I  called  on  them  one  day  and 
was  coldly  treated  simply  because  I  am  your 
closest  friend.  Marguerite  pointedly  ex 
pressed  her  opinion  of  a  woman  who  deserts 
a  man  because  he  has  his  faults.  Think  of 


358        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

this  child's  sitting  in  moral  condemnation 
upon  you ! 

"  The  Hardages  also  —  of  course  you  have 
no  stancher  friends  than  they  are  —  have 
stood  up  stubbornly  for  Rowan.  Professor 
Hardage  became  very  active  in  trying  to  bring 
the  truth  out  of  what  he  believes  to  be  gossip 
and  misunderstanding.  And  Miss  Anna  has 
also  remained  loyal  to  him,  and  in  her  sunny, 
common-sense  way  flouts  the  idea  of  there 
being  any  truth  in  these  reports. 

"  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  that  Judge 
Morris  now  spends  his  Sunday  evenings 
with  Professor  Hardage.  No  one  has  told 
him:  they  have  spared  him.  Of  course 
every  one  knows  that  he  was  once  engaged 
to  Rowan's  mother  and  that  scandal  broke 
the  engagement  and  separated  them  for  life. 
Only  in  his  case  it  was  long  afterward  found 
out  that  the  tales  were  not  true. 

"I  have  forgotten  Barbee.  He  and  Mar 
guerite  had  quarrelled  before  her  illness  —  no 
one  knows  why,  unless  she  was  already  under 
theinfluenceof  her  fatal  infatuation  for  Rowan. 
Barbee  has  gone  to  work.  A  few  weeks  ago 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       359 

he  won  his  first  serious  case  in  court  and  at 
tracted  attention.  They  say  his  speech  was 
so  full  of  dignity  and  unnecessary  rage  that 
some  one  declared  he  was  simply  trying  to 
recover  his  self-esteem  for  Marguerite's  hav 
ing  called  him  trivial  and  not  yet  altogether 
grown  up. 

"  Of  course  you  must  have  had  letters  of 
your  own,  telling  you  of  the  arrival  of  the 
Fieldings — Victor's  mother  and  sisters;  and 
the  house  is  continually  gay  with  suppers  and 
parties. 

"  How  my  letter  wanders !  It  is  a  sick 
letter,  Isabel,  a  dead  letter.  I  must  not 
close  without  going  back  to  the  Merediths 
once  more.  People  have  been  driving  out 
to  see  the  little  farm  and  the  curious  little 
house  of  Dent  Meredith's  bride  elect  —  a 
girl  called  Pansy  Something.  It  lies  near 
enough  to  the  turnpike  to  be  in  full  view  — 
too  full  view.  They  say  it  is  like  a  poultry 
farm  and  that  the  bride  is  a  kind  of  American 
goose  girl :  it  will  be  a  marriage  between 
geology  and  the  geese.  The  geese  will 
have  the  best  of  it. 


360        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  Dearest  friend,  what  shall  I  tell  you  of 
my  own  life  —  of  my  nights,  of  the  mornings 
when  I  wake,  of  these  long,  lonesome,  sum 
mer  afternoons  ?  Nothing,  nothing,  nothing, 
nothing  !  I  should  rather  write  to  you  how 
my  thoughts  go  back  to  the  years  of  our  girl 
hood  together  when  we  were  so  happy,  Isabel, 
so  happy,  so  happy  !  What  ideals  we  formed 
as  to  our  marriages  and  our  futures  ! 

"  KATE. 

"  P.S.  —  I  meant  to  tell  you  that  of  course 
I  shall  do  everything  in  my  power  to  break 
up  the  old  friendship  between  George  and 
Rowan.  Indeed,  I  have  already  done  it." 


VI 


THIS  letter  brought  Isabel  home  at  once 
through  three  days  of  continuous  travel. 
From  the  station  she  had  herself  driven 
straight  to  Mrs.  Osborn's  house,  and  she 
held  the  letter  in  her  hand  as  she  went. 

Her  visit  lasted  for  some  time  and  it  was 
not  pleasant.  When  Mrs.  Osborn  hastened 
down,  surprised  at  Isabel's  return  and  pre 
pared  to  greet  her  with  the  old  warmth,  her 
greeting  was  repelled  and  she  herself  recoiled, 
hurt  and  disposed  to  demand  an  explanation. 

"Isabel,"  she  said  reproachfully,  "is  this 
the  way  you  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

Isabel  did  not  heed  but  spoke :  "  As  soon 
as  I  received  this  letter,  I  determined  to  come 
home.  I  wished  to  know  at  once  what  these 
things  are  that  are  being  said  about  Rowan. 
What  are  they?" 

Mrs.  Osborn  hesitated  :  "  I  should  rather 
not  tell  you." 

361 


362       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  But  you  must  tell  me :  my  name  has 
been  brought  into  this,  and  I  must  know." 

While  she  listened  her  eyes  flashed  and 
when  she  spoke  her  voice  trembled  with 
excitement  and  anger.  "  These  things  are 
not  true,"  she  said.  "  Only  Rowan  and  I 
know  what  passed  between  us.  I  told  no 
one,  he  told  no  one,  and  it  is  no  one's  right 
to  know.  A  great  wrong  has  been  done 
him  and  a  great  wrong  has  been  done  me ; 
and  I  shall  stay  here  until  these  wrongs  are 
righted." 

"  And  is  it  your  feeling  that  you  must 
begin  with  me  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Osborn,  bitterly. 

"  Yes,  Kate  ;  you  should  not  have  believed 
these  things.  You  remember  our  once  say 
ing  to  each  other  that  we  would  try  never 
to  believe  slander  or  speak  slander  or  think 
slander  ?  It  is  unworthy  of  you  to  have 
done  so  now." 

"  Do  you  realize  to  whom  you  are  speak 
ing,  and  that  what  I  have  done  has  been 
through  friendship  for  you  ?  " 

Isabel  shook  her  head  resolvedly.  "  Your 
friendship  for  me  cannot  exact  of  you  that 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      363 

you  should  be  untrue  to  yourself  and  false 
to  others.  You  say  that  you  refuse  to  speak 
to  Rowan  on  the  street.  You  say  that  you 
have  broken  up  the  friendship  between  Mr. 
Osborn  and  him.  Rowan  is  the  truest  friend 
Mr.  Osborn  has  ever  had ;  you  know  this. 
But  in  breaking  off  that  friendship,  you  have 
done  more  than  you  have  realized  :  you  have 
ended  my  friendship  with  you." 

"  And  this  is  gratitude  for  my  devotion 
to  you  and  my  willingness  to  fight  your 
battles  !  "  said  Mrs.  Osborn,  rising. 

"  You  cannot  fight  my  battles  without 
fighting  Rowan's.  My  wish  to  marry  him 
or  not  to  marry  him  is  one  thing ;  my  will 
ingness  to  see  him  ruined  is  another." 

Isabel  drove  home.  She  rang  the  bell  as 
though  she  were  a  stranger.  When  her 
maid  met  her  at  the  door,  overjoyed  at  her 
return,  she  asked  for  her  grandmother  and 
passed  at  once  into  her  parlors.  As  she 
did  so,  Mrs.  Conyers  came  through  the  hall, 
dressed  to  go  out.  At  the  sound  of  Isabel's 
voice,  she,  who  having  once  taken  hold  of  a 
thing  never  let  it  go,  dropped  her  parasol ; 


364       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

and  as  she  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  the  blood 
rushed  to  her  face. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Isabel, 
coming  quickly  out  into  the  hall  as  though  to 
prevent  her  grandmother's  exit.  Her  voice 
was  low  and  full  of  shame  and  indignation. 

"  I  am  at  your  service  for  a  little  while," 
said  Mrs.  Conyers,  carelessly;  "later  I  am 
compelled  to  go  out."  She  entered  the  par 
lors,  followed  by  Isabel,  and,  seating  herself 
in  the  nearest  chair,  finished  buttoning  her 
glove. 

Isabel  sat  silent  a  moment,  shocked  by 
her  reception.  She  had  not  realized  that  she 
was  no  longer  the  idol  of  that  household  and 
of  its  central  mind ;  and  we  are  all  loath  to 
give  up  faith  in  our  being  loved  still,  where 
we  have  been  loved  ever.  She  was  not  aware 
that  since  she  had  left  home  she  had  been 
disinherited.  She  would  not  have  cared  had 
she  known  ;  but  she  was  now  facing  what  was 
involved  in  the  disinheritance  —  dislike;  and 
in  the  beginning  of  dislike  there  was  the 
ending  of  the  old  awe  with  which  the  grand 
mother  had  once  regarded  the  grandchild. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      365 

But  she  came  quickly  back  to  the  grave 
matter  uppermost  in  her  mind.  "  Grand 
mother,"  she  said,  "  I  received  a  few  days 
ago  a  letter  from  Kate  Osborn.  In  it  she 
told  me  that  there  were  stories  in  circulation 
about  Rowan.  I  have  come  home  to  find 
out  what  these  stories  are.  On  -the  way  from 
the  station  I  stopped  at  Mrs.  Osborn's,  and 
she  told  me.  Grandmother,  this  is  your 
work." 

Mrs.  Conyers  pushed  down  the  thumb  of 
her  glove. 

"  Have  I  denied  it  ?  But  why  do  you  at 
tempt  to  deny  that  it  is  also  your  work  ? " 

Isabel  sat  regarding  her  with  speechless, 
deepening  horror.  She  was  not  prepared 
for  this  revelation.  Mrs.  Conyers  did  not 
wait,  but  pressed  on  with  a  certain  debonair 
enjoyment  of  her  advantage. 

"  You  refused  to  recognize  my  right  to 
understand  a  matter  that  affected  me  and 
affected  other  members  of  the  family  as  well 
as  yourself.  You  showed  no  regard  for  the 
love  I  had  cherished  for  you  many  a  year. 
You  put  me  aside  as  though  I  had  no  claim 


366       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

upon  your  confidence  —  I  believe  you  said 
I  was  not  worthy  of  it ;  but  my  memory  is 
failing  —  perhaps  I  wrong  you." 

"  It  is  true  !  "  said  Isabel,  with  triumphant 
joy  in  reaffirming  it  on  present  grounds.  "  It 
is  true  I  " 

"Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Conyers,  "we 
shall  let  that  pass.  It  was  of  consequence 
then ;  it  is  of  no  consequence  now :  these 
little  personal  matters  are  very  trivial.  But 
there  was  a  serious  matter  that  you  left  on 
my  hands ;  the  world  always  demands  an 
explanation  of  what  it  is  compelled  to  see 
and  cannot  understand.  If  no  explanation 
is  given,  it  creates  an  explanation.  It  was 
my  duty  to  see  that  it  did  not  create  an  ex 
planation  in  this  case.  Whatever  it  may 
have  been  that  took  place  between  you  and 
Rowan,  I  did  not  intend  that  the  responsi 
bility  should  rest  upon  you,  even  though 
you  may  have  been  willing  that  it  should 
rest  there.  You  discarded  Rowan ;  I  was 
compelled  to  prevent  people  from  thinking 
that  Rowan  discarded  you.  Your  reason 
for  discarding  him  you  refused  to  confide 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      367 

to  me ;  I  was  compelled  therefore  to  decide 
for  myself  what  it  probably  was.  Ordinarily 
when  a  man  is  dropped  by  a  girl  under  such 
circumstances,  it  is  for  this/'  she  tapped  the 
tips  of  her  ringers  one  by  one  as  she  went 
on,  "  or  for  this,  or  for  this,  or  for  this ;  you 
can  supply  the  omitted  words  —  nearly  any 
one  can  —  the  world  always  does.  You  see, 
it  becomes  interesting.  As  I  had  not  your 
authority  for  stating  which  one  of  these  was 
the  real  reason,  I  was  compelled  to  leave 
people  at  liberty  to  choose  for  themselves. 
I  could  only  say  that  I  myself  did  not  know  ; 
but  that  certainly  it  was  for  some  one  of 
these  reasons,  or  two  of  them,  or  for  all  of 
them." 

"  You  have  tried  to  ruin  him  !  "  Isabel 
cried,  white  with  suffering. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  received  my  whole 
idea  of  this  from  you.  Nothing  that  I  said 
to  others  about  him  was  quite  so  bad  as  what 
you  said  to  me ;  for  you  knew  the  real  rea 
son  of  your  discarding  him,  and  the  reason 
was  so  bad  —  or  so  good  —  that  you  could 
not  even  confide  it  to  me,  your  natural  con- 


368       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

fidant.  You  remember  saying  that  we  must 
drop  him  from  the  list  of  our  acquaintances, 
must  not  receive  him  at  the  house,  or  rec 
ognize  him  in  society,  or  speak  to  him  in 
public.  I  protested  that  this  would  be  very 
unjust  to  him,  and  that  he  might  ask  me  at 
least  the  grounds  for  so  insulting  him  ;  you 
assured  me  that  he  would  never  dare  ask. 
And  now  you  affect  to  be  displeased  with  me 
for  believing  what  you  said,  and  trying  to 
defend  you  from  criticism,  and  trying  to  pro 
tect  the  good  name  of  the  family." 

"  Ah,"  cried  Isabel,  "  you  can  give  fair 
reasons  for  foul  deeds.  You  always  could. 
We  often  do,  we  women.  The  blacker  our 
conduct,  the  better  the  names  with  which  we 
cover  it.  If  you  would  only  glory  openly  in 
what  you  have  done  and  stand  by  it !  Not 
a  word  of  what  you  have  said  is  true,  as  you 
have  said  it.  When  I  left  home  not  a  hu 
man  being  but  yourself  knew  that  there  had 
been  trouble  between  Rowan  and  me.  It 
need  never  have  become  public,  had  you  let 
the  matter  be  as  I  asked  you  to  do,  and  as 
you  solemnly  promised  that  you  would.  It 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      369 

is  you  who  have  deliberately  made  the  trouble 
and  scattered  the  gossip  and  spread  the  scan 
dal.  Why  do  you  not  avow  that  your  mo 
tive  was  revenge,  and  that  your  passion  was 
not  justice,  but  malice.  Ah,  you  are  too 
deep  a  woman  to  try  to  seem  so  shallow ! " 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  further  service  to  you  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Conyers  with  perfect  politeness, 
rising.  <c  I  am  sorry  that  the  hour  of  my 
engagement  has  come.  Are  you  to  be  in 
town  long  ? " 

"  I  shall  be  here  until  I  have  undone  what 
you  have  done/*  cried  Isabel,  rising  also  and 
shaking  with  rage.  "  The  decencies  of  life 
compel  me  to  shield  you  still,  and  for  that 
reason  I  shall  stay  in  this  house.  I  am  not 
obliged  to  ask  this  as  a  privilege ;  it  is  my 
right." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  often." 

Isabel  went  up  to  her  room  as  usual  and 
summoned  her  maid,  and  ordered  her  car 
riage  to  be  ready  in  half  an  hour. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  came  down  and 
drove  to  the  Hardages'.  She  showed  no 

2B 


37°       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

pleasure  in  seeing  him  again,  and  he  no  sur 
prise  in  seeing  her. 

"  I  have  been  expecting  you,"  he  said ;  "  I 
thought  you  would  be  brought  back  by  all 
this." 

"  Then  you  have  heard  what  they  are  say 
ing  about  Rowan  ?" 

"  I  suppose  we  have  all  heard,"  he  replied, 
looking  at  her  sorrowfully. 

"  You  have  not  believed  these  things  ?  " 

"  I  have  denied  them  as  far  as  I  could.  I 
should  have  denied  that  anything  had  oc 
curred  ;  but  you  remember  I  could  not  do 
that  after  what  you  told  me.  You  said  some 
thing  had  occurred." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  But  you  now 
have  my  authority  at  least  to  say  that  these 
things  are  not  true.  What  I  planned  for  the 
best  has  been  misused  and  turned  against 
him  and  against  me.  Have  you  seen 
him  ? " 

"  He  has  been  in  town,  but  I  have  not 
seen  him." 

"  Then  you  must  see  him  at  once.  Tell 
me  one  thing :  have  you  heard  it  said  that  I 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      371 

am  responsible  for  the  circulation  of  these 
stories  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  has  heard  that  ?  And 
could  he  believe  it  ?  Yet  might  he  not 
believe  it  ?  But  how  could  he,  how  could 
he!" 

"  You  must  come  here  and  stay  with  us. 
Anna  will  want  you."  He  could  not  tell 
her  his  reason  for  understanding  that  she 
would  not  wish  to  stay  at  home. 

"  No,  I  should  like  to  come ;  but  it  is 
better  for  me  to  stay  at  home.  But  I  wish 
Rowan  to  come  to  see  me  here.  Judge 
Morris  —  has  he  done  nothing?" 

"  He  does  not  know.  No  one  has  told 
him." 

Her  expression  showed  that  she  did  not 
understand. 

"Years  ago,  when  he  was  about  Rowan's 
age,  scandals  like  these  were  circulated  about 
him.  We  know  how  much  his  life  is  wrapped 
up  in  Rowan.  He  has  not  been  well  this 
summer  :  we  spared  him." 

"  But  you  must  tell    him  at   once.     Say 


372       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

that  I  beg  him  to  write  to  Rowan  to  come 
to  see  him.  I  want  Rowan  to  tell  him  every 
thing —  and  to  tell  you  everything." 

All  the  next  day  Judge  Morris  stayed  in 
his  rooms.  The  end  of  life  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  been  bent  around  until  it  touched 
the  beginning.  At  last  he  understood. 

"It  was  she,  then,"  he  said.  "  I  always 
suspected  her ;  but  I  had  no  proof  of  her 
guilt;  and  if  she  had  not  been  guilty,  she 
could  never  have  proved  her  innocence.  And 
now  for  years  she  has  smiled  at  me,  clasped 
my  hands,  whispered  into  my  ear,  laughed 
in  my  eyes,  seemed  to  be  everything  to  me 
that  was  true.  Well,  she  has  been  everything 
that  is  false.  And  now  she  has  fallen  upon 
the  son  of  the  woman  whom  she  tore  from 
me.  And  the  vultures  of  scandal  are  tearing 
at  his  heart.  And  he  will  never  be  able  to 
prove  his  innocence  !  " 

He  stayed  in  his  rooms  all  that  day. 
Rowan,  in  answer  to  his  summons,  had  said 
that  he  should  come  about  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon ;  and  it  was  near  the  middle  of  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      373 

afternoon  now.  As  he  counted  the  minutes, 
Judge  Morris  was  unable  to  shut  out  from 
his  mind  the  gloomier  possibilities  of  the  case. 

"  There  is  some  truth  behind  all  this/'  he 
said.  "  She  broke  her  engagement  with  him, 
—  at  least,  she  severed  all  relations  with  him  ; 
and  she  would  not  do  that  without  grave 
reason."  He  was  compelled  to  believe  that 
she  must  have  learned  from  Rowan  himself 
the  things  that  had  compelled  her  painful 
course.  Why  had  Rowan  never  confided 
these  things  to  him  ?  His  mind,  while  re 
maining  the  mind  of  a  friend,  almost  the  mind 
of  a  father  toward  a  son,  became  also  the  mind 
of  a  lawyer,  a  criminal  lawyer,  with  the  old, 
fixed,  human  bloodhound  passion  for  the 
scent  of  crime  and  the  footsteps  of  guilt. 

It  was  with  both  attitudes  that  he  himself 
answered  Rowan's  ring ;  he  opened  the  door 
half  warmly  and  half  coldly.  In  former 
years  when  working  up  his  great  cases  in 
volving  life  and  death,  it  had  been  an  occa 
sional  custom  of  his  to  receive  his  clients, 
if  they  were  socially  his  friends,  not  in  his 
private  office,  but  in  his  rooms ;  it  was  part 


374       T/ie  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

of  his  nature  to  show  them  at  such  crises  his 
unshaken  trust  in  their  characters.  He  re 
ceived  Rowan  in  his  rooms  now.  It  was  a 
clear  day ;  the  rooms  had  large  windows ; 
and  the  light  streaming  in  took  from  them 
all  the  comfort  which  they  acquired  under 
gaslight :  the  carpets  were  faded,  the  rugs 
were  worn  out  and  lay  in  the  wrong  places. 
It  was  seen  to  be  a  desolate  place  for  a 
desolated  life. 

"  How  are  you,  Rowan  ?  "  he  said,  speak 
ing  as  though  he  had  seen  him  the  day 
before,  and  taking  no  note  of  changes  in  his 
appearance.  Without  further  words  he  led 
the  way  into  his  sitting  room  and  seated 
himself  in  his  leather  chair. 

"Will  you  smoke?" 

They  had  often  smoked  as  they  sat  thus 
when  business  was  before  them,  or  if  no 
business,  questions  to  be  intimately  discussed 
about  life  and  character  and  good  and  bad. 
Rowan  did  not  heed  the  invitation,  and  the 
Judge  lighted  a  cigar  for  himself.  He  was 
a  long  time  in  lighting  it,  and  burned  two  or 
three  matches  at  the  end  of  it  after  it  was 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      375 

lighted,  keeping  a  cloud  of  smoke  before  his 
eyes  and  keeping  his  eyes  closed.  When 
the  smoke  rose  and  he  lay  back  in  his  chair, 
he  looked  across  at  the  young  man  with  the 
eyes  of  an  old  lawyer  who  had  drawn  the 
truth  out  of  the  breast  of  many  a  criminal 
by  no  other  command  than  their  manly 
light.  Rowan  sat  before  him  without  an 
effort  at  composure.  There  was  something 
about  him  that  suggested  a  young  officer  out 
of  uniform,  come  home  with  a  browned  face 
to  try  to  get  himself  court-martialled.  He 
spoke  first : 

"  I  have  had  Isabel's  letter,  and  I  have 
come  to  tell  you." 

"  I  need  not  say  to  you,  tell  me  the  whole 
truth." 

"  No,  you  need  not  say  that  to  me.  I 
should  have  told  you  long  ago,  if  it  had  been 
a  duty.  But  it  was  not  a  duty.  You  had 
not  the  right  to  know ;  there  was  no  reason 
why  you  should  know.  This  was  a  matter 
which  concerned  only  the  woman  whom  I 
was  to  marry."  His  manner  had  the  firm 
and  quiet  courtesy  that  was  his  birthright. 


376        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

A  little  after  dark,  Rowan  emerged  into 
the  street.  His  carriage  was  waiting  for  him 
and  he  entered  it  and  went  home.  Some 
minutes  later.  Judge  Morris  came  down  and 
walked  to  the  Hardages'.  He  rang  and 
asked  for  Professor  Hardage  and  waited  for 
him  on  the  door-step.  When  Professor 
Hardage  appeared,  he  said  to  him  very 
solemnly  :  "  Get  your  hat." 

The  two  men  walked  away,  the  Judge 
directing  their  course  toward  the  edge  of  the 
town.  "  Let  us  get  to  a  quiet  place,"  he 
said,  "  where  we  can  talk  without  being  over 
heard."  It  was  a  pleasant  summer  night 
and  the  moon  was  shining,  and  they  stepped 
off  the  sidewalk  and  took  the  middle  of  the 
pike.  The  Judge  spoke  at  last,  looking 
straight  ahead. 

"  He  had  a  child,  and  when  he  asked  Isa 
bel  to  marry  him  he  told  her." 

They  walked  on  for  a  while  without 
anything  further  being  said.  When  Pro 
fessor  Hardage  spoke,  his  tone  was  re 
flective  : 

"It  was  this  that  made  it  impossible  for 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       377 

her  to  marry  him.  Her  love  for  him  was 
everything  to  her ;  he  destroyed  himself  for 
her  when  he  destroyed  himself  as  an  ideal. 
Did  he  tell  you  the  story  ? " 

"Told  everything." 

By  and  by  the  Judge  resumed  :  cc  It  was 
a  student's  love  affair,  and  he  would  have 
married  her.  She  said  that  if  she  married 
him,  there  would  never  be  any  happiness  for 
her  in  life ;  she  was  not  in  his  social  class, 
and,  moreover,  their  marriage  would  never  be 
understood  as  anything  but  a  refuge  from 
their  shame,  and  neither  of  them  would  be 
able  to  deny  this.  She  disappeared  some 
time  after  the  birth  of  the  child.  More 
than  a  year  later,  maybe  it  was  two  years, 
he  received  a  letter  from  her  stating  that  she 
was  married  to  a  man  in  her  own  class  and 
that  her  husband  suspected  nothing,  and 
that  she  expected  to  live  a  faithful  wife  to 
him  and  be  the  mother  of  his  children. 
The  child  had  been  adopted,  the  traces  of 
its  parentage  had  been  wiped  out,  those  who 
had  adopted  it  could  do  more  for  its  life  and 
honor  than  he  could.  She  begged  him  not 


378        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

to  try  to  find  her  or  ruin  her  by  communi 
cating  the  past  to  her  husband.  That's 
about  all." 

"The  old  tragedy — old  except  to  them." 
"  Old  enough.  Were  we  not  speaking  the 
other  day  of  how  the  old  tragedies  are  the  new 
ones  ?  I  get  something  new  out  of  this  ;  you 
get  the  old.  What  strikes  me  about  it  is  that 
the  man  has  declined  to  shirk — that  he  has  felt 
called  upon  not  to  injure  any  other  life  by  his 
silence.  I  wish  I  had  a  right  to  call  it  the  mettle 
of  a  young  American,  his  truthfulness.  As  he 
put  the  case  to  me,  what  he  got  out  of  it  was 
this :  Here  was  a  girl  deceiving  her  husband 
about  her  past — otherwise  he  would  never 
have  married  her.  As  the  world  values  such 
things,  what  it  expected  of  Rowan  was  that  he 
should  go  of?  and  marry  a  girl  and  conceal  his 
past.  He  said  that  he  would  not  lie  to  a  class 
mate  in  college,  he  would  not  cheat  a  pro 
fessor  ;  was  it  any  better  silently  to  lie  to  and 
cheat  the  woman  that  he  loved  and  expected 
to  make  the  mother  of  his  children  ?  What 
ever  he  might  have  done  with  any  one  else, 
there  was  something  in  the  nature  of  the  girl 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       379 

whom  he  did  come  to  love  that  made  it  im 
possible  :  she  drove  untruthfulness  out  of 
him  as  health  drives  away  disease.  He  saved 
his  honor  with  her,  but  he  lost  her." 

"  She  saved  her  honor  through  giving  up 
him.  But  it  is  high  ground,  it  is  a  sad  hill 
top,  that  each  has  climbed  to." 

"  Hardage,  we  can  climb  so  high  that  we 
freeze." 

They  turned  back.  The  Judge  spoke 
again  with  a  certain  sad  pride : 

"  I  like  their  mettle,  it  is  Shakespearean 
mettle,  it  is  American  mettle.  We  lie  in 
business,  and  we  lie  in  religion,  and  we  lie  to 
women.  Perhaps  if  a  man  stopped  lying  to 
a  woman,  by  and  by  he  might  begin  to  stop 
lying  for  money,  and  at  last  stop  lying  with 
his  Maker.  But  this  boy,  what  can  you  and 
I  do  for  him  ?  We  can  never  tell  the  truth 
about  this  ;  and  if  we  try  to  clear  him,  un 
less  we  ourselves  lie,  we  shall  leave  him  the 
victim  of  a  flock  of  lies." 

Isabel  remained  at  home  a  week. 

During  her  first  meeting  with  Rowan,  she 
effaced  all  evidences  that  there  had  ever 


380       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

been  a  love  affair  between  them.  They  re 
sumed  their  social  relations  temporarily  and 
for  a  definite  purpose  —  this  was  what  she 
made  him  understand  at  the  outset  and  to  the 
end.  All  that  she  said  to  him,  all  that  she  did, 
had  no  further  significance  than  her  general 
interest  in  his  welfare  and  her  determination 
to  silence  the  scandal  for  which  she  herself  was 
in  a  way  innocently  responsible.  Their  old 
life  without  reference  to  it  was  assumed  to 
be  ended ;  and  she  put  all  her  interest  into 
what  she  assumed  to  be  his  new  life  ;  this  she 
spoke  of  as  a  certainty,  keeping  herself  out 
of  it  as  related  to  it  in  any  way.  She  forced 
him  to  talk  about  his  work,  his  plans,  his 
ambitions ;  made  him  feel  always  not  only 
that  she  did  not  wish  to  see  him  suffer,  but 
that  she  expected  to  see  him  succeed. 

They  were  seen  walking  together  and  driv 
ing  together.  He  demurred,  but  she  insisted. 
"  I  will  not  accept  such  a  sacrifice,"  he  said, 
but  she  overruled  him  by  her  reply :  "  It  is 
not  a  sacrifice ;  it  is  a  vindication  of  myself, 
that  you  cannot  oppose."  But  he  knew  that 
there  was  more  in  it  than  what  she  called 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      3  8  i 

vindication  of  herself ;  there  was  the  fighting 
friendship  of  a  comrade. 

During  these  days,  Isabel  met  cold  faces. 
She  found  herself  a  fresh  target  for  criticism, 
a  further  source  of  misunderstanding.  And 
there  was  fresh  suffering,  too,  which  no  one 
could  have  foreseen.  Late  one  twilight 
when  she  and  Rowan  were  driving,  they 
passed  Marguerite  driving  also,  she  being 
still  a  guest  at  the  Merediths',  and  getting 
well.  Each  carriage  was  driving  slowly,  and 
the  road  was  not  wide,  and  the  wheels  al 
most  locked,  and  there  was  time  enough  for 
everything  to  be  seen.  And  the  next  day, 
Marguerite  went  home  from  the  Merediths' 
and  passed  into  a  second  long  illness. 

The  day  came  for  Isabel  to  leave  —  she 
was  going  away  to  remain  a  long  time,  a 
year,  two  years.  They  had  had  their  last 
drive  and  twilight  was  falling  when  they 
returned  to  the  Hardages'.  She  was  stand 
ing  on  the  steps  as  she  gave  him  both  her 
hands. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  in  the  voice  of  one 
who  had  finished  her  work.  "  I  hardly 


382       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

know  what  to  say  —  I  have  said  everything. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  my  last  feeling 
is,  that  you  will  make  life  a  success,  that 
nothing  will  pull  you  down.  I  suppose 
that  the  life  of  each  of  us,  if  it  is  worth 
while,  is  not  made  up  of  one  great  effort  and 
of  one  failure  or  of  one  success,  but  of  many 
efforts,  many  failures,  partial  successes.  But 
I  am  afraid  we  all  try  at  first  to  realize  our 
dreams.  Good-by  ! " 

"  Marry  me,"  he  said,  tightening  his  grasp 
on  her  hands  and  speaking  as  though  he  had 
the  right. 

She  stepped  quickly  back  from  him.  She 
felt  a  shock,  a  delicate  wound,  and  she  said 
with  sudden  coldness  :  "  I  did  not  think  you 
would  so  misjudge  me  in  all  that  I  have  been 
trying  to  do." 

She  went  quickly  in. 


VII 

IT  was  a  morning  in  the  middle  of 
October  when  Dent  and  Pansy  were 
married. 

The  night  before  had  been  cool  and  clear 
after  a  rain  and  a  long-speared  frost  had 
fallen.  Even  before  the  sun  lifted  itself 
above  the  white  land,  a  full  red  rose  of  the 
sky  behind  the  rotting  barn,  those  early 
abroad  foresaw  what  the  day  would  be. 
Nature  had  taken  personal  interest  in  this 
union  of  her  two  children,  who  worshipped 
her  in  their  work  and  guarded  her  laws  in 
their  characters,  and  had  arranged  that  she 
herself  should  be  present  in  bridal  livery. 

The  two  prim  little  evergreens  which  grew 
one  on  each  side  of  the  door-step  waited  at 
respectful  attention  like  heavily  powdered 
festal  lackeys.  The  scraggy  aged  cedars  of 
the  yard  stood  about  in  green  velvet  and 
brocade  incrusted  with  gems.  The  door 
steps  themselves  were  softly  piled  with  the 
383 


384       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

white  flowers  of  the  frost,  and  the  bricks  of 
the  pavement  strewn  with  multitudinous 
shells  and  stars  of  dew  and  air.  Every  poor 
stub  of  grass,  so  economically  cropped  by  the 
geese,  wore  something  to  make  it  shine.  In 
the  back  yard  a  clothes-line  stretched  be 
tween  a  damson  and  a  peach  tree,  and  on 
it  hung  forgotten  some  of  Pansy's  father's 
underclothes;  but  Nature  did  what  she 
could  to  make  the  toiler's  raiment  look  like 
diamonded  banners,  flung  bravely  to  the 
breeze  in  honor  of  his  new  son-in-law. 
Everything  —  the  duck  troughs,  the  roof  of 
the  stable,  the  cart  shafts,  the  dry-goods  box 
used  as  a  kennel  —  had  ugliness  hidden  away 
under  that  prodigal  revelling  ermine  of 
decoration.  The  sun  itself  had  not  long 
risen  before  Nature  even  drew  over  that  a 
bridal  veil  of  silver  mist,  so  that  the  whole 
earth  was  left  wrapped  in  whiteness  that  be 
came  holiness. 

Pansy  had  said  that  she  desired  a  quiet 
wedding,  so  that  she  herself  had  shut  up 
the  ducks  that  they  might  not  get  to  Mrs. 
Meredith.  And  then  she  had  made  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      385 

rounds  and  fed  everything ;  and  now  a  cer 
tain  lethargy  and  stupor  of  food  quieted  all 
creatures  and  gave  to  the  valley  the  dignity 
of  a  vocal  solitude. 

The  botanist  bride  was  not  in  the  least 
abashed  during  the  ceremony.  Nor  proud : 
Mrs.  Meredith  -more  gratefully  noticed  this. 
And  she  watched  closely  and  discovered 
with  relief  that  Pansy  did  not  once  glance 
at  her  with  uneasiness  or  for  approval.  The 
mother  looked  at  Dent  with  eyes  growing 
dim.  cc  She  will  never  seem  to  be  the  wife 
of  my  son/'  she  said,  "  but  she  will  make 
her  children  look  like  his  children/* 

And  so  it  was  all  over  and  they  were  gone 
—  slipped  away  through  the  hiding  white 
mists  without  a  doubt  of  themselves,  without 
a  doubt  of  each  other,  mating  as  naturally 
as  the  wild  creatures  who  never  know  the 
problems  of  human  selection,  or  the  prob 
lems  that  civilization  leaves  to  be  settled 
after  selection  has  been  made. 

Mrs.  Meredith  and  Rowan  and  the 
clergyman  were  left  with  the  father  and  the 
children,  and  with  an  unexampled  wedding 

2  C 


386       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

collation  —  one  of  Pansy's  underived  master 
pieces.  The  clergyman  frightened  the 
younger  children ;  they  had  never  seen  his 
like  either  with  respect  to  his  professional 
robes  or  his  superhuman  clerical  voice  — 
their  imaginations  balancing  unsteadily  be 
tween  the  impossibility  of  his  being  a  man 
in  a  nightgown  and  the  impossibility  of  his 
being  a  woman  with  a  mustache. 

After  his  departure  their  fright  and  appre 
hensions  settled  on  Mrs.  Meredith.  They 
ranged  themselves  on  chairs  side  by  side 
against  a  wall,  and  sat  confronting  her  like 
a  class  in  the  public  school  fated  to  be  ex 
amined  in  deadly  branches.  None  moved 
except  when  she  spoke,  and  then  all  writhed 
together  but  each  in  a  different  way ;  the  most 
comforting  word  from  her  produced  a  family 
spasm  with  individual  proclivities.  Rowan 
tried  to  talk  with  the  father  about  crops : 
they  were  frankly  embarrassed.  What  can  a 
young  man  with  two  thousand  acres  of  the 
best  land  say  to  an  old  man  with  fifty  of  the 
poorest  ? 

The    mother    and    son    drove    home    in 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      387 

silence.  She  drew  one  of  his  hands  into 
her  lap  and  held  it  with  close  pressure. 
They  did  not  look  at  each  other. 

As  the  carriage  rolled  easily  over  the 
curved  driveway,  through  the  noble  forest 
trees  they  caught  glimpses  of  the  house  now 
standing  clear  in  afternoon  sunshine.  Each 
had  the  same  thought  of  how  empty  it 
waited  there  without  Dent  —  henceforth  less 
than  a  son,  yet  how  much  more ;  more  than 
brother,  but  how  much  less.  How  a  brief 
ceremony  can  bind  separated  lives  and  tear 
bound  ones  apart ! 

"  Rowan,"  she  said,  as  they  walked  slowly 
from  the  carriage  to  the  porch,  she  having 
clasped  his  arm  more  intimately,  "  there  is 
something  I  have  wanted  to  do  and  have  been 
trying  to  do  for  a  long  time.  It  must  not 
be  put  off  any  longer.  We  must  go  over  the 
house  this  afternoon.  There  are  a  great  many 
things  that  I  wish  to  show  you  and  speak  to 
you  about  —  things  that  have  to  be  divided 
between  you  and  Dent." 

"  Not  to-day !  not  to-day ! "  he  cried, 
turning  to  her  with  quick  appeal.  But 


388       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

she  shook  her  head  slowly,  with  brave 
cheerfulness. 

"  Yes  ;  to-day.  Now ;  and  then  we  shall 
be  over  with  it.  Wait  for  me  here."  She 
passed  down  the  long  hall  to  her  bedroom, 
and  as  she  disappeared  he  rushed  into  the 
parlors  and  threw  himself  on  a  couch  with 
his  hands  before  his  face ;  then  he  sprang  up 
and  came  out  into  the  hall  again  and  waited 
with  a  quiet  face. 

When  she  returned,  smiling,  she  brought 
with  her  a  large  bunch  of  keys,  and  she  took 
his  arm  dependently  as  they  went  up  the 
wide  staircase.  She  led  him  to  the  upper 
bedrooms  first  —  in  earlier  years  so  crowded 
and  gay  with  guests,  but  unused  during  later 
ones.  The  shutters  were  closed,  and  the 
afternoon  sun  shot  yellow  shafts  against 
floors  and  walls.  There  was  a  perfume  of 
lavender,  of  rose  leaves. 

"  Somewhere  in  one  of  these  closets  there 
is  a  roll  of  linen."  She  opened  one  after  an 
other,  looking  into  each.  "  No ;  it  is  not 
here.  Then  it  must  be  in  there.  Yes  ;  here 
it  is.  This  linen  was  spun  and  woven  from 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      389 

flax  grown  on  your  great-great-grandfather's 
land.  Look  at  it !  It  is  beautifully  made. 
Each  generation  of  the  family  has  inherited 
part  and  left  the  rest  for  generations  yet  to 
come.  Half  of  it  is  yours,  half  is  Dent's. 
When  it  has  been  divided  until  there  is  no 
longer  enough  to  divide,  that  will  be  the  last 
of  the  home-made  linen  of  the  old  time.  It 
was  a  good  time,  Rowan  ;  it  produced  mas 
terful  men  and  masterful  women,  not  man 
nish  women.  Perhaps  the  golden  age  of  our 
nation  will  some  day  prove  to  have  been  the 
period  of  the  home-spun  Americans." 

As  they  passed  on  she  spoke  to  him  with 
an  increasing,  almost  unnatural  gayety.  He 
had  a  new  appreciation  of  what  her  charm 
must  have  been  when  she  was  a  girl.  The 
rooms  were  full  of  memories  to  her;  many 
of  the  articles  that  she  caressed  with  her  rin 
gers,  and  lingered  over  with  reluctant  eyes, 
connected  themselves  with  days  and  nights  of 
revelry  and  the  joy  of  living;  also  with  prides 
and  deeds  which  ennobled  her  recollection. 

"  You  and  Dent  know  that  your  father 
divided  equally  all  that  he  had.  But  every- 


3  go      The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

thing  in  the  house  is  mine,  and  I  have  made 
no  will  and  shall  not  make  any.  What  is 
mine  belongs  to  you  two  alike.  Still,  I  have 
made  a  list  of  things  that  I  think  he  would 
rather  have,  and  a  list  of  things  for  you  — 
merely  because  I  wish  to  give  something  to 
each  of  you  directly." 

In  a  room  on  a  lower  floor  she  unlocked 
a  closet,  the  walls  of  which  were  lined  with 
shelves.  She  peeped  in  ;  then  she  withdrew 
her  head  and  started  to  lock  the  door  again ; 
but  she  changed  her  mind  and  laughed. 

"  Do  you  know  what  these  things  are  ?  " 
She  touched  a  large  box,  and  he  carried  it 
over  to  the  bed  and  she  lifted  the  top  off, 
exposing  the  contents.  "  Did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  black?  This  was  the  clerical 
robe  in  which  one  of  your  ancestors  used  to 
read  his  sermons.  He  is  the  one  who  wrote 
the  treatise  on  c  God  Properly  and  Unproperly 
Understood/  He  was  the  great  seminarian 
in  your  father's  family  —  the  portrait  in  the 
hall,  you  know.  I  shall  not  decide  whether 
you  or  Dent  must  inherit  this ;  decide  for 
yourselves  ;  I  imagine  you  will  end  it  in  the 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      391 

quarrel.  How  black  it  is,  and  what  black 
sermons  flew  out  of  it  —  ravens,  instead  of 
white  doves,  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  He  was 
the  friend  of  Jonathan  Edwards."  She  made 
a  wry  face  as  he  put  the  box  back  into  the 
closet ;  and  she  laughed  again  as  she  locked 
it  in. 

"  Here  are  some  things  from  my  side  of 
the  family."  And  she  drew  open  a  long 
drawer  and  spoke  with  proud  reticence. 
They  stood  looking  down  at  part  of  the 
uniform  of  an  officer  of  the  Revolution. 
She  lifted  one  corner  of  it  and  disclosed  a 
sword  beneath.  She  lifted  another  corner  of 
the  coat  and  exposed  a  roll  of  parchment. 
"  I  suppose  I  should  have  had  this  parch 
ment  framed  and  hung  up  downstairs,  so 
that  it  would  be  the  first  thing  seen  by  any 
one  entering  the  front  door;  and  this  sword 
should  have  been  suspended  over  the  fire 
place,  or  have  been  exposed  under  a  glass 
case  in  the  parlors  ;  and  the  uniform  should 
have  been  fitted  on  a  tailor's  manikin ;  and 
we  should  have  lectured  to  our  guests  on 
our  worship  of  our  ancestors  —  in  the  new 


392       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

American  way,  in  the  Chino-American  way. 
But  I'm  afraid  we  go  to  the  other  extreme, 
Rowan ;  perhaps  we  are  proud  of  the  fact 
that  we  are  not  boastful.  Instead  of  con 
cerning  ourselves  with  those  who  shed  glory 
on  us,  we  have  concerned  ourselves  with  the 
question  whether  we  are  shedding  glory  on 
them.  Still,  I  wonder  whether  our  ancestors 
may  not  possibly  be  offended  that  we  say 
so  little  about  them  ! " 

She  led  him  up  and  down  halls  and  from 
floor  to  floor. 

"  Of  course  you  know  this  room  —  the 
nursery.  Here  is  where  you  began  to  be 
a  bad  boy ;  and  you  began  before  you  can 
remember.  Did  you  never  see  these  things 
before  ?  They  were  your  first  soldiers  —  I 
have  left  them  to  Dent.  And  here  are  some 
of  Dent's  things  that  I  have  left  to  you. 
For  one  thing,  his  castanets.  His  father 
and  I  never  knew  why  he  cried  for  casta 
nets.  He  said  that  Dent  by  all  the  laws  of 
spiritual  inheritance  from  his  side  should  be 
wanting  the  timbrel  and  harp  —  Biblical  in 
fluence,  you  understand ;  but  that  my  influ- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      393 

ence  interfered  and  turned  timbrel  and  harp 
into  castanets.  Do  you  remember  the  day 
when  you  ran  away  with  Dent  and  took  him 
to  a  prize  fight?  After  that  you  wanted 
boxing-gloves,  and  Dent  was  crazy  for  a 
sponge.  You  fought  him,  and  he  sponged 
you.  Here  is  the  sponge;  I  do  not  know 
where  the  gloves  are.  And  here  are  some 
things  that  belong  to  both  of  you ;  they  are 
mine;  they  go  with  me."  She  laid  her  hand 
on  a  little  box  wrapped  and  tied,  then  quickly 
shut  the  closet. 

In  a  room  especially  fragrant  with  lavender 
she  opened  a  press  in  the  wall  and  turned 
her  face  away  from  him  for  a  moment. 

"  This  is  my  bridal  dress.  This  was  my 
bridal  veil ;  it  has  been  the  bridal  veil  of 
girls  in  my  family  for  a  good  many  genera 
tions.  These  were  my  slippers ;  you  see  I 
had  a  large  foot ;  but  it  was  well  shaped  — 
it  was  a  woman's  foot.  That  was  my  vanity 
—  not  to  have  a  little  foot.  I  leave  these 
things  to  you  both.  I  hope  each  of  you 
may  have  a  daughter  to  wear  the  dress  and 
the  veil."  For  the  first  time  she  brushed 


394       TAe  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

some  tears  from  her  eyes.  "  I  look  to  my 
sons  for  sons  and  daughters." 

It  was  near  sunset  when  they  stood  again 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  She  was  white 
and  tired,  but  her  spirit  refused  to  be  con 
quered. 

"  I  think  I  shall  lie  down  now,"  she  said, 
"so  I  shall  say  good  night  to  you  here,  Rowan. 
Fix  the  tray  for  me  yourself,  pour  me  out 
some  tea,  and  butter  me  a  roll."  They  stood 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  She  saw 
things  in  his  which  caused  her  suddenly  to 
draw  his  forehead  over  and  press  her  lips 
to  one  and  then  to  the  other,  again  and 
again. 

The  sun  streamed  through  the  windows, 
level  and  red,  lighting  up  the  darkened  hall, 
lighting  up  the  head  and  shoulders  of  his 
mother. 

An  hour,  later  he  sat  at  the  head  of  his 
table  alone  —  a  table  arranged  for  two  instead 
of  three.  At  the  back  of  his  chair  waited 
the  aged  servitor  of  the  household,  gray- 
haired,  discreet,  knowing  many  things  about 
earlier  days  on  which  rested  the  seal  of  in- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       395 

corruptible  silence.  A  younger  servant  per 
formed  the  duties. 

He  sat  at  the  head  of  his  table  and  excused 
the  absence  of  his  mother  and  forced  himself 
with  the  pride  and  dignity  of  his  race  to  give 
no  sign  of  what  had  passed  that  day.  His 
mother's  maid  entered,  bringing  him  in  a 
crystal  vase  a  dark  red  flower  for  his  coat. 
She  had  always  given  him  that  same  dark 
red  flower  after  he  had  turned  into  manhood. 
"  It  is  your  kind,"  she  said ;  "  I  understand." 

He  arranged  the  tray  for  her,  pouring  out 
her  tea,  buttering  the  rolls.  Then  he  forced 
himself  to  eat  his  supper  as  usual.  From 
old  candlesticks  on  the  table  a  silver  radiance 
was  shed  on  the  massive  silver,  on  the  gem- 
like  glass.  Candelabra  on  the  mantelpiece 
and  the  sideboard  lighted  up  the  browned 
oak  of  the  walls. 

He  left  the  table  at  last,  giving  and  hearing 
a  good  night.  The  servants  efficiently  ended 
their  duties  and  put  out  the  lights.  In  the 
front  hall  lamps  were  left  burning ;  there 
were  lamps  and  candles  in  the  library.  He 
went  off  to  a  room  on  the  ground  floor  in 


396       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

one  ell  of  the  house ;  it  was  his  sitting 
room,  smoking  room,  the  lounging  place  of 
his  friends.  In  one  corner  stood  a  large 
desk,  holding  old  family  papers ;  here  also 
were  articles  that  he  himself  had  lately  been 
engaged  on  —  topics  relating  to  scientific 
agriculture,  soils,  and  stock-raising.  It  was 
the  road  by  which  some  of  the  country 
gentlemen  who  had  been  his  forefathers 
passed  into  a  larger  life  of  practical  affairs  — 
going  into  the  Legislature  of  the  state  or 
into  the  Senate ;  and  he  had  thought  of  this 
as  a  future  for  himself.  For  an  hour  or  two 
he  looked  through  family  papers. 

Then  he  put  them  aside  and  squarely 
faced  the  meaning  of  the  day.  His  thoughts 
traversed  the  whole  track  of  Dent's  life  — 
one  straight  track  upward.  No  deviations, 
no  pitfalls  there,  no  rising  and  falling.  And 
now  early  marriage  and  safety  from  so  many 
problems ;  with  work  and  honors  and  wifely 
love  and  children :  work  and  rest  and  duty 
to  the  end.  Dent  had  called  him  into  his 
room  that  morning  after  he  was  dressed  for 
his  wedding  and  had  started  to  thank  him  for 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       397 

his  love  and  care  and  guardianship  and  then 
had  broken  down  and  they  had  locked  their 
arms  around  each  other,  trying  not  to  say 
what  could  not  be  said. 

He  lived  again  through  that  long  after 
noon  with  his  mother.  What  had  the  whole 
day  been  to  her  and  how  she  had  risen  to 
meet  with  nobility  all  its  sadnesses  !  Her 
smile  lived  before  him ;  and  her  eyes,  shin 
ing  with  increasing  brightness  as  she  dwelt 
upon  things  that  meant  fading  sunlight :  she 
fondling  the  playthings  of  his  infancy,  keep 
ing  some  of  them  to  be  folded  away  with  her 
at  last;  touching  her  bridal  dress  and  speaking 
her  reliance  on  her  sons  for  sons  and  daugh 
ters  ;  at  the  close  of  the  long  trying  day 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  white 
with  weariness  and  pain,  but  so  brave,  so 
sweet,  so  unconquerable.  He  knew  that 
she  was  not  sleeping  now,  that  she  was  think 
ing  of  him,  that  she  had  borne  everything 
and  would  bear  everything  not  only  because 
it  was  due  to  herself,  but  because  it  was  due 
to  him. 

He  turned  out  the  lights  and  sat  at  a  win- 


398        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

dow  opening  upon  the  night.  The  voices 
of  the  land  came  in  to  him,  the  voices  of  the 
vanished  life  of  its  strong  men. 

He  remembered  the  kind  of  day  it  was 
when  he  first  saw  through  its  autumn  trees 
the  scattered  buildings  of  his  university. 
What  impressions  it  had  made  upon  him 
as  it  awaited  him  there,  gray  with  stateliness, 
hoary  with  its  honors,  pervaded  with  the  very 
breath  and  spirit  of  his  country.  He  re 
called  his  meeting  with  his  professors,  the 
choosing  of  his  studies,  the  selection  of  a 
place  in  which  to  live.  Then  had  followed 
what  had  been  the  great  spectacle  and  ex 
perience  of  his  life  —  the  assembling  of  picked 
young  men,  all  eager  like  greyhounds  at  the 
slips  to  show  what  was  in  them,  of  what  stuff 
they  were  made,  what  strength  and  hardi 
hood  and  robust  virtues,  and  gifts  and  grace 
for  manly  intercourse.  He  had  been  caught 
up  and  swept  off  his  feet  by  that  influence. 
Looking  back  as  he  did  to  that  great  plateau 
which  was  his  home,  for  the  first  time  he  had 
felt  that  he  was  not  only  a  youth  of  an 
American  commonwealth,  but  a  youth  of  his 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       399 

whole  country.  They  were  all  American 
youths  there,  as  opposed  to  English  youths 
and  German  youths  and  Russian  youths. 
There  flamed  up  in  him  the  fierce  passion, 
which  he  believed  to  be  burning  in  them  all, 
to  show  his  mettle  —  the  mettle  of  his  state, 
the  mettle  of  his  nation.  To  him,  newly  come 
into  this  camp  of  young  men,  it  lay  around 
the  walls  of  the  university  like  a  white  spir 
itual  host,  chosen  youths  to  be  made  into 
chosen  men.  And  he  remembered  how 
little  he  then  knew  that  about  this  white 
host  hung  the  red  host  of  those  camp-fol 
lowers,  who  beleaguer  in  outer  darkness 
every  army  of  men. 

Then  had  followed  warfare,  double  war 
fare  :  the  ardent  attack  on  work  and  study ; 
athletic  play,  good  fellowship  ;  visits  late  at 
night  to  the  chambers  of  new  friends  — 
chambers  rich  in  furniture  and  pictures, 
friends  richer  in  old  names  and  fine  manners 
and  beautiful  boyish  gallant  ways  ;  his  club 
and  his  secret  society,  and  the  whole  bewil 
dering  maddening1  enchantment  of  student 
life,  where  work  and  duty  and  lights  and 


400       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

wine  and  poverty  and  want  and  flesh  and 
spirit  strive  together  each  for  its  own.  At 
this  point  he  put  these  memories  away,  locked 
them  from  himself  in  their  long  silence. 

Near  midnight  he  made  his  way  quietly 
back  into  the  main  hall.  He  turned  out 
the  lamps  and  lighted  his  bedroom  candle 
and  started  toward  the  stairway,  holding  it 
in  front  of  him  a  little  above  his  head,  a 
low-moving  star  through  the  gloom.  As  he 
passed  between  two  portraits,  he  paused 
with  sudden  impulse  and,  going  over  to  one, 
held  his  candle  up  before  the  face  and  stud 
ied  it  once  more.  A  man,  black-browed, 
black-robed,  black-bearded,  looked  down 
into  his  eyes  as  one  who  had  authority  to 
speak.  He  looked  far  down  upon  his  off 
spring,  and  he  said  to  him  :  "  You  may  be 
one  of  those  who  through  the  flesh  are  chosen 
to  be  damned.  But  if  He  chooses  to  damn 
you,  then  be  damned,  but  do  not  question 
His  mercy  or  His  justice :  it  is  not  for  you 
to  alter  the  fixed  and  the  eternal." 

He  crossed  with  his  candle  to  the  oppo 
site  wall  and  held  it  up  before  another  face  : 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      401 

a  man  full  of  red  blood  out  to  the  skin ; 
full-lipped,  red-lipped  ;  audacious  about  the 
forehead  and  brows,  and  beautiful  over  his 
thick  careless  hair  through  which  a  girl's 
fingers  seemed  lately  to  have  wandered. 
He  looked  level  out  at  his  offspring  as 
though  he  still  stood  throbbing  on  the  earth 
and  he  spoke  to  him  :  "  I  am  not  alive  to 
speak  to  you  with  my  voice,  but  I  have 
spoken  to  you  through  my  blood.  When 
the  cup  of  life  is  filled,  drain  it  deep.  Why 
does  nature  fill  it  if  not  to  have  you  empty 
it?" 

He  blew  his  candle  out  in  the  eyes  of  that 
passionate  face,  and  holding  it  in  his  hand,  a 
smoking  torch,  walked  slowly  backward  and 
forward  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall  with  only 
a  little  pale  moonlight  struggling  in  through 
a  window  here  and  there. 

Then  with  a  second  impulse  he  went  over 
and  stood  close  to  the  dark  image  who  had 
descended  into  him  through  the  mysteries 
of  nature.  "  You,"  he  said,  "  who  helped 
to  make  me  what  I  am,  you  had  the  con 
science  and  not  the  temptation.  And  you/' 

2D 


402       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

he  said,  turning  to  the  hidden  face  across  the 
hall,  "  who  helped  to  make  me  what  I  am, 
you  had  the  temptation  and  not  the  con 
science.  What  does  either  of  you  know  of 
me  who  had  both  ? 

"  And  what  do  I  know  about  either  of 
you,"  he  went  on,  taking  up  again  the 
lonely  vigil  of  his  walk  and  questioning; 
"you  who  preached  against  the  Scarlet 
Woman,  how  do  I  know  you  were  not  the 
scarlet  man  ?  I  may  have  derived  both 
from  you  —  both  conscience  and  sin  — 
without  hypocrisy.  All  those  years  during 
which  your  face  was  hardening,  your  one 
sincere  prayer  to  God  may  have  been  that 
He  would  send  you  to  your  appointed  place 
before  you  were  found  out  by  men  on  earth. 
And  you  with  your  fresh  red  face,  you  may 
have  lain  down  beside  the  wife  of  your  youth, 
and  have  lived  with  her  all  your  years,  as 
chaste  as  she." 

He  resumed  his  walk,  back  and  forth, 
back  and  forth  ;  and  his  thoughts  changed  : 

"  What  right  have  I  to  question  them,  or 
judge  them,  or  bring  them  forward  in  my 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       403 

life  as  being  responsible  for  my  nature  ?  If 
I  roll  back  the  responsibility  to  them,  had 
they  not  fathers  ?  and  had  not  their  fathers 
fathers?  and  if  a  man  rolls  back  his  deeds 
upon  those  who  are  his  past,  then  where  will 
responsibility  be  found  at  all,  and  of  what 
poor  cowardly  stuff  is  each  of  us  ?  " 

How  silent  the  night  was,  how  silent  the 
great  house !  Only  his  slow  footsteps 
sounded  there  like  the  beating  of  a  heavy 
heart  resolved  not  to  fail. 

At  last  they  died  away  from  the  front  of 
the  house,  passing  inward  down  a  long  hall 
way  and  growing  more  muffled ;  then  the 
sound  of  them  ceased  altogether :  he  stood 
noiselessly  before  his  mother's  door. 

He  stood  there,  listening  if  he  might  hear 
in  the  intense  stillness  a  sleeper's  breathing. 
"  Disappointed  mother,"  he  said  as  silently 
as  a  spirit  might  speak  to  a  spirit. 

Then  he  came  back  and  slowly  began  to 
mount  the  staircase. 

"  Is  it  then  wrong  for  a  man  to  do  right  ? 
Is  it  ever  right  to  do  wrong?"  he  said 
finally.  "  Should  I  have  had  my  fling  and 


404       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

never  have  cared  and  never  have  spoken  ? 
Is  there  a  true  place  for  deception  in  the 
world  ?  May  our  hypocrisy  with  each  other 
be  a  virtue  ?  If  you  have  done  evil,  shall 
you  live  the  whited  sepulchre  ?  Ah,  Isabel, 
how  easily  I  could  have  deceived  you  !  Does 
a  woman  care  what  a  man  may  have  done, 
if  he  be  not  found  out?  Is  not  her  highest 
ideal  for  him  a  profitable  reputation,  not  a 
spotless  character  ?  No,  I  will  not  wrong 
you  by  these  thoughts.  It  was  you  who 
said  to  me  that  you  once  loved  all  that  you 
saw  in  me,  and  believed  that  you  saw  every 
thing.  All  that  you  asked  of  me  was  truth 
fulness  that  had  no  sorrow." 

He  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  began 
to  feel  his  way  toward  his  room. 

"  To  have  one  chance  in  life,  in  eternity, 
for  a  white  name,  and  to  lose  it ! " 


VIII 

AUTUMN  and  winter  had  passed.  Another 
spring  was  nearly  gone.  One  Monday  morn 
ing  of  that  May,  the  month  of  new  growths 
and  of  old  growths  with  new  starting-points 
on  them,  Ambrose  Webb  was  walking  to  and 
fro  across  the  fresh  oilcloth  in  his  short  hall ; 
the  front  door  and  the  back  door  stood  wide 
open,  as  though  to  indicate  the  receptivity 
of  his  nature  in  opposite  directions  ;  all  the 
windows  were  wide  open,  as  though  to  bring 
out  of  doors  into  his  house  :  he  was  much 
more  used  to  the  former;  during  married 
life  the  open  had  been  more  friendly  than 
the  interior.  But  he  was  now  also  master 
of  the  interior  and  had  been  for  nearly  a  year. 

Some  men  succeed  best  as  partial  autom 
ata,  as  dogs  for  instance  that  can  be  highly 
trained  to  pull  little  domestic  carts,  Ambrose 
had  grown  used  to  pulling  his  cart :  he  had 
expected  to  pull  it  for  the  rest  of  his  days ; 
and  now  the  cart  had  suddenly  broken  down 
405 


406       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

behind  him  and  he  was  left  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  long  life-road.  But  liberty  was 
too  large  a  destiny  for  a  mind  of  that  order ; 
the  rod  of  empire  does  not  fit  such  hands  ;  it 
was  intolerable  to  Ambrose  that  he  was  in 
a  world  where  he  could  do  as  he  pleased. 

On  this  courageous  Monday,  therefore, — 
whatsoever  he  was  to  do  during  the  week  he 
always  decided  on  Mondays,  —  after  months 
of  irresolution  he  finally  determined  to  make 
a  second  dash  for  slavery.  But  he  meant  to 
be  canny;  this  time  he  would  choose  a  woman 
who,  if  she  ruled  him,  would  not  misrule 
him;  what  he  could  stand  was  a  sovereign, 
not  a  despot,  and  he  believed  that  he  had 
found  this  exceptionally  gifted  and  excep 
tionally  moderated  being :  it  was  Miss  Anna 
Hardage. 

From  the  day  of  Miss  Anna's  discovery 
that  Ambrose  had  a  dominating  consort,  she 
had  been,  she  had  declared  she  should  be, 
much  kinder  to  him.  "When  his  wife  died, 
Miss  Anna  had  been  kinder  still.  Affliction 
present,  affliction  past,  her  sympathy  had  not 
failed  him. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       407 

He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  lingering 
a  little  whenever  he  took  his  dairy  products 
around  to  the  side  porch.  Every  true  man 
yearns  for  the  eyes  of  some  woman ;  and 
Ambrose  developed  the  feeling  that  he  should 
like  to  live  with  Miss  Anna's.  He  had  no 
gift  for  judging  human  conduct  except  by 
common  human  standards;  and  so  at  bottom 
he  believed  that  Miss  Anna  in  her  own  way 
had  been  telling  him  that  if  the  time  ever 
came,  she  could  be  counted  on  to  do  the 
right  thing  by  him. 

So  Ambrose  paced  the  sticky  oilcloth  this 
morning  as  a  man  who  has  reached  the  hill 
of  decision.  He  had  bought  him  a  new 
buggy  and  new  harness.  Hitched  to  the  one 
and  wearing  the  other  was  his  favorite  roan 
mare  with  a  Roman  nose  and  a  white  eye, 
now  dozing  at  the  stiles  in  the  front  yard 
He  had  curried  her  and  had  combed  her 
mane  and  tail  and  had  had  her  newly  shod, 
and  altogether  she  may  have  felt  too  com 
fortable  to  keep  awake.  He  himself  seemed 
to  have  received  a  coating  of  the  same  varnish 
as  his  buggy.  Had  you  pinned  a  young 


40 8        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

beetle  in  the  back  of  his  coat  or  on  either 
leg  of  his  trousers,  as  a  mere  study  in  shades 
of  blackness,  it  must  have  been  lost  to  view 
at  the  distance  of  a  few  yards  through  sheer 
harmony  with  its  background.  Under  his 
Adam's  apple  there  was  a  green  tie  —  the 
bough  to  the  fruit.  His  eyes  sparkled  as 
though  they  had  lately  been  reset  and  pol 
ished  by  a  jeweller. 

What  now  delayed  and  excited  him  at 
this  last  moment  before  setting  out  was  un 
certainty  as  to  the  offering  he  should  bear 
Miss  Anna.  Fundamental  instincts  vaguely 
warned  him  that  love's  altar  must  be  ap 
proached  with  gifts.  He  knew  that  some 
brought  fortune,  some  warlike  deeds,  some 
fame,  some  the  beauty  of  their  strength  and 
youth.  He  had  none  of  these  to  offer ;  but 
he  was  a  plain  farmer,  and  he  could  give 
her  what  he  had  so  often  sold  her  —  a  pound 
of  butter. 

He  had  awaited  the  result  of  the  morning 
churning;  but  the  butter  had  tasted  of  turnips, 
and  Ambrose  did  not  think  that  the  taste  of 
turnips  represented  the  flavor  of  his  emotion. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       409 

Nevertheless,  there  was  one  thing  that  she 
preferred  even  to  butter ;  he  would  ensnare 
her  in  her  own  weakness,  catch  her  in  her  own 
net:  he  would  take  her  ajar  of  cream. 

Miss  Anna  was  in  her  usual  high  spirits 
that  morning.  She  was  trying  a  new  recipe 
for  some  dinner  comfort  for  Professor  Har- 
dage,  when  her  old  cook,  who  also  answered 
the  doorbell,  returned  to  the  kitchen  with 
word  that  Mr.  Webb  was  in  the  parlor. 

"  Why,  I  paid  him  for  his  milk,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Anna,  without  ceasing  to  beat  and  stir. 
"  And  what  is  he  doing  in  the  parlor  ?  Why 
didn't  he  come  around  to  the  side  door  ? 
I'll  be  back  in  a  moment."  She  took  off 
her  apron  from  an  old  habit  of  doing  so 
whenever  she  entered  the  parlor. 

She  gave  her  dairyman  the  customary 
hearty  greeting,  hurried  back  to  get  him  a 
glass  of  water,  inquired  dispassionately  about 
grass,  inundated  him  with  a  bounteous  over 
flow  of  her  impersonal  humanity.  But  he 
did  not  state  his  business,  and  she  grew  im 
patient  to  return  to  her  confection. 

"Do  I  owe  you  for  anything,  Mr.  Webb  ?  " 


410       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

she  suddenly  asked,  groping  for  some  clew 
to  this  lengthening  labyrinthine  visit. 

He  rose  and  going  to  the  piano  raked 
heavily  off  of  the  top  of  it  a  glass  jar  and 
brought  it  over  to  her  and  resumed  his  seat 
with  a  speaking  countenance. 

"  Cream  !  "  cried  Miss  Anna,  delighted, 
running  her  practised  eye  downward  along 
the  bottle  to  discover  where  the  contents 
usually  began  to  get  blue :  it  was  yellow  to 
the  bottom.  "  How  much  is  it?  I'm  afraid 
we  are  too  poor  to  buy  so  much  cream  all  at 


once." 


"  It  has  no  price ;  it  is  above  price." 

"  Howmuch  is  it,  Mr.  Webb  r  "  she  insisted 
with  impatience. 

"  It  is  a  free  gift." 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  present !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Anna,  holding  it  up  to  the  light  ad 
miringly.  "  How  can  I  ever  thank  you." 

"  Don't  thank  me  :  you  could  have  the 
dairy  !  You  could  have  the  cows,  the  farm." 

"  O  dear,  no  !  "  cried  Miss  Anna,  "  that 
would  be  altogether  too  much  !  One  bottle 
goes  far  beyond  all  that  I  ever  hoped  for." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       41 1 

"  I  wish  all  women  were  like  you." 

"  O  dear,  no !  that  would  not  do  at  all ! 
I  am  an  old  maid,  and  women  must  marry, 
must,  must !  What  would  become  of  the 
world  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  be  an  old  maid  unless  you 
wish." 

"  Now,  I  had  never  thought  of  that !  " 
observed  Miss  Anna,  in  a  very  peculiar  tone. 
"  But  we'll  not  talk  about  myself;  let  us  talk 
about  yourself.  You  are  looking  extremely 
well  —  now  aren't  you  ? " 

"  No  one  has  a  better  right.  It  is  due 
you  to  let  you  know  this.  There's  good 
timber  in  me  yet." 

"  Due  me  !    I  am  not  interested  in  timber." 

"Anna,"  he  said,  throwing  his  arms 
around  one  of  his  knees,  "  our  hour  has 
come  —  we  need  not  wait  any  longer." 

"Wait  for  what?"  inquired  Miss  Anna, 
bending  toward  him  with  the  scrutiny  of  a 
near-sighted  person  trying  to  make  out  some 
looming  horror. 

"  Our  marriage." 

Miss  Anna  rose  as  by  an  inward  explosion. 


4 1  2       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"Go,  buzzard!" 

He  kept  his  seat  and  stared  at  her  with  a 
dropped  jaw.  Habit  was  powerful  in  him  ; 
and  there  was  something  in  her  anger,  in  that 
complete  sweeping  of  him  out  of  her  way,  that 
recalled  the  domestic  usages  of  former  years 
and  brought  to  his  lips  an  involuntary  time- 
worn  expression : 

"  I  meant  nothing  offensive." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  meant,  and  I 
do  not  care  :  go  !  " 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her,  and  with  a 
flash  of  sincere  anger  he  spoke  his  honest 
mind :  "  It  was  you  who  put  the  notion  in 
my  head.  You  encouraged  me,  encouraged 
me  systematically ;  and  now  you  are  pre 
tending.  You  are  a  bad  woman." 

"  I  think  I  am  a  bad  woman  after  what 
has  happened  to  me  this  morning,"  said 
Miss  Anna,  dazed  and  ready  to  break 
down. 

He  hesitated  when  he  reached  the  door, 
smarting  with  his  honest  hurt;  and  he 
paused  there  and  made  a  request. 

"  At  least  I  hope  that  you  will  never  men- 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       413 

tion  this  ;  it  might  injure  me."  He  did  not 
explain  how,  but  he  seemed  to  understand. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I'd  tell  my  Maker  if 
He  did  not  already  know  it  ? "  She  swept 
past  him  into  the  kitchen. 

"  As  soon  as  you  have  done  your  work, 
go  clean  the  parlor,"  she  said  to  the  cook. 
"  Give  it  a  good  airing.  And  throw  that 
cream  away,  throw  the  bottle  away." 

A  few  moments  later  she  hurried  with  her 
bowl  into  the  pantry ;  there  she  left  it  unfin 
ished  and  crept  noiselessly  up  the  backstairs 
to  her  room. 

That  evening  as  Professor  Hardage  sat 
opposite  to  her,  reading,  while  she  was  doing 
some  needlework,  he  laid  his  book  down 
with  the  idea  of  asking  her  some  question. 
But  he  caught  sight  of  her  expression  and 
studied  it  a  few  moments.  It  was  so  ludi 
crous  a  commingling  of  mortification  and 
rage  that  he  laughed  outright. 

"Why,  Anna,  what  on  earth  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  she  burst 
into  hysterical  sobs. 


4 1 4       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

He  came  over  and  tried  to  draw  her  fin 
gers  away  from  her  eyes.  "  Tell  me  all 
about  it." 

She  shook  her  head  frantically. 

"  Yes,  tell  me,"  he  urged.  "  Is  there  any 
thing  in  all  these  years  that  you  have  not 
told  me  ? " 

"  I  cannot,"  she  sobbed  excitedly.  "  I 
am  disgraced." 

He  laughed.    "  What  has  disgraced  you  ? " 

"A  man." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  cried,  "  has  some 
body  been  making  love  to  you  ? " 

"  Yes." 

His  face  flushed.  cc  Come,"  he  said  seri 
ously,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this, 
Anna?" 

She  told  him. 

"  Why  aren't  you  angry  with  him  ?  "  she 
complained,  drying  her  eyes.  "You  sit 
there  and  don't  say  a  word ! " 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  be  angry  with  any 
soul  for  loving  you  and  wishing  to  be  loved 
by  you  ?  He  cast  his  mite  into  the  treasury, 
Anna." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       415 

"  I  didn't  mind  the  mite/'  she  replied. 
"  But  he  said  I  encouraged  him,  that  I  en 
couraged  him  systematically'' 

"  Did  you  expect  him  to  be  a  philosopher  ? " 

"I  did  not  expect  him  to  be  a  —  "  She 
hesitated  at  the  harsh  word. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  expected  him  to  be  a 
philosopher.  Haven't  you  been  kind  to 
him  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course." 

"  Systematically  kind  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course." 

"  Did  you  have  any  motive  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  had  no  motive  —  aren't  you 
ashamed  ! " 

"  But  did  you  expect  him  to  be  genius 
enough  to  understand  that?  Did  *you 
suppose  that  he  could  understand  such  a 
thing  as  kindness  without  a  motive  ?  Don't 
be  harsh  with  him,  Anna,  don't  be  hard  on 
him  :  he  is  an  ordinary  man  and  judged  you 
by  the  ordinary  standard.  You  broke  your 
alabaster  box  at  his  feet,  and  he  secretly  sus 
pected  that  you  were  working  for  something 
more  valuable  than  the  box  of  ointment. 


4 1 6        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

The  world  is  full  of  people  who  are  kind 
without  a  motive ;  but  few  of  those  to 
whom  they  are  kind  believe  this.'* 

Before  Miss  Anna  fell  asleep  that  night, 
she  had  resolved  to  tell  Harriet.  Every 
proposal  of  marriage  is  known  at  least  to 
three  people.  The  distinction  in  Miss 
Anna's  conduct  was  not  in  telling,  but  in 
not  telling  until  she  had  actually  been 
asked. 

Two  mornings  later  Ambrose  was  again 
walking  through  his  hall.  There  is  one 
compensation  for  us  all  in  the  large  mis 
eries  of  life  —  we  no  longer  feel  the  little 
ones.  His  experience  in  his  suit  for  Miss 
Anna's  hand  already  seemed  a  trifle  to 
Ambrose,  who  had  grown  used  to  bearing 
worse  things  from  womankind.  Miss  Anna 
was  not  the  only  woman  in  the  world,  he 
averred,  by  way  of  swift  indemnification. 
Indeed,  in  the  very  act  of  deciding  upon 
her,  he  had  been  thinking  of  some  one  else. 
The  road  of  life  had  divided  equally  before 
him  :  he  had  chosen  Miss  Anna  as  a  traveller 
chooses  the  right  fork  ;  the  left  fork  remained 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       417 

and  he  was  now  preparing  to  follow  that :  it 
led  to  Miss  Harriet  Crane. 

As  Ambrose  now  paced  his  hallway,  revolv 
ing  certain  details  connected  with  his  next 
venture  and  adventure,  the  noise  of  an 
approaching  carriage  fell  upon  his  ear,  and 
going  to  the  front  door  he  recognized  the 
brougham  of  Mrs.  Conyers.  But  it  was 
Miss  Harriet  Crane  who  leaned  forward 
at  the  window  and  bowed  smilingly  to  him 
as  he  hurried  out. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Webb? "  she  said, 
putting  out  her  hand  and  shaking  his  cor 
dially,  at  the  same  time  giving  him  a  glance 
of  new-born  interest.  "  You  know  I  have 
been  threatening  to  come  out  for  a  long 
time.  I  must  owe  you  an  enormous  bill 
for  pasturage,"  she  picked  up  her  purse  as 
she  spoke,  cc  and  I  have  come  to  pay  my 
debts.  And  then  I  wish  to  see  my  calf," 
and  she  looked  into  his  eyes  very  pleasantly. 

"You  don't  owe  me  anything,"  replied 
Ambrose.  "  What  is  grass  ?  What  do  I 
care  for  grass  ?  My  mind  is  set  on  other 
things." 

2E 


41 8        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

He  noticed  gratefully  how  gentle  and  mild 
she  looked  ;  there  was  such  a  beautiful  soft 
ness  about  her  and  he  had  had  hardness 
enough.  He  liked  her  ringlets :  they  were 
a  novelty ;  and  there  hung  around  her,  in 
the  interior  of  the  carriage,  a  perfume  that 
was  unusual  to  his  sense  and  that  impressed 
him  as  a  reminder  of  her  high  social  position. 
But  Ambrose  reasoned  that  if  a  daughter  of 
his  neighbor  could  wed  a  Meredith,  surely 
he  ought  to  be  able  to  marry  a  Crane. 

"  If  you  want  to  see  the  calf,"  he  said, 
but  very  reluctantly,  "  I'll  saddle  my  horse 
and  we'll  go  over  to  the  back  pasture." 

"  Don't  saddle  your  horse,"  objected  Har 
riet,  opening  the  carriage  door  and  moving 
over  to  the  far  cushion,  "  ride  with  me." 

He  had  never  ridden  in  a  brougham,  and 
as  he  got  in  very  nervously  and  awkwardly, 
he  reversed  his  figure  and  tried  to  sit  on  the 
little  front  seat  on  which  lay  Harriet's  hand 
kerchief  and  parasol. 

"  Don't  ride  backwards,  Mr.  Webb,"  sug 
gested  Harriet.  "  Unless  you  are  used  to 
it,  you  are  apt  to  have  a  headache,"  and  she 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       419 

tapped  the  cushion  beside  her  as  an  invita 
tion  to  him.  "  Now  tell  me  about  my 
calf/'  she  said  after  they  were  seated  side 
by  side. 

As  she  introduced  this  subject,  Ambrose 
suddenly  looked  out  of  the  window.  She 
caught  sight  of  his  uneasy  profile. 

"  Now,  don't  tell  me  that  there's  any  bad 
news  about  it !  "  she  cried.  "  It  is  the  only 
pet  I  have." 

"  Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  turning  his  face 
farther  away,  "  you  forget  how  long  your 
calf  has  been  out  here ;  it  isn't  a  calf  any 
longer:  it  has  had  a  calf." 

He  spoke  so  sternly  that  Harriet,  who  all 
her  life  had  winced  before  sternness,  felt 
herself  in  some  wise  to  be  blamed.  And 
coolness  was  settling  down  upon  them  when 
she  desired  only  a  melting  and  radiant 
warmth. 

"  Well,"  she  objected  apologetically,  "  isn't 
it  customary  ?  What's  the  trouble  ?  What's 
the  objection  ?  This  is  a  free  country ! 
Whatever  is  natural  is  right!  Why  are 
you  so  displeased?" 


420        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

About  the  same  hour  the  next  Monday 
morning  Ambrose  was  again  pacing  his  hall 
way  and  thinking  of  Harriet.  At  least  she 
was  no  tyrant:  the  image  of  her  softness 
rose  before  him  again.  "  I  make  no  mis 
take  this  time." 

His  uncertainty  at  the  present  moment 
was  concerned  solely  with  the  problem  of 
what  his  offering  should  be  in  this  case : 
under  what  image  should  love  present  itself? 
The  right  thought  came  to  him  by  and  by ; 
and  taking  from  his  storeroom  an  orna 
mental  basket  with  a  top  to  it,  he  went  out  to 
his  pigeon  house  and  selected  two  blue  squabs. 
They  were  tender  and  soft  and  round ;  with 
out  harshness,  cruelty,  or  deception.  What 
ever  they  seemed  to  be,  that  they  were ;  and 
all  that  they  were  was  good. 

But  as  Ambrose  walked  back  to  the  house, 
he  lifted  the  top  of  the  basket  and  could 
but  admit  that  they  did  look  bare.  Might 
they  not,  as  a  love  token,  be  —  unrefined? 
He  crossed  to  a  flower  bed,  and,  pulling  a 
few  rose-geranium  leaves,  tucked  them  here 
and  there  about  the  youngsters. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       421 

It  was  not  his  intention  to  present  these 
to  Harriet  in  person  :  he  had  accompanied 
the  cream  —  he  would  follow  the  birds;  they 
should  precede  him  twenty-four  hours  and 
the  amative  poison  would  have  a  chance  to 
work. 

During  that  forenoon  his  shining  buggy 
drawn  by  his  roan  mare,  herself  symbolic  of 
softness,  drew  up  before  the  entrance  of  the 
Conyers  homestead.  Ambrose  alighted ; 
he  lifted  the  top  of  the  basket  —  all  was 
well. 

"  These  pets  are  for  your  Miss  Harriet," 
he  said  to  the  maid  who  answered  his  ring. 

As  the  maid  took  the  basket  through  the 
hall  after  having  watched  him  drive  away, 
incredulous  as  to  her  senses,  she  met  Mrs. 
Conyers,  who  had  entered  the  hall  from  a 
rear  veranda. 

"Who  rang?"  she  asked;  "and  what  is 
that?" 

The  maid  delivered  her  instructions.  Mrs. 
Conyers  took  the  basket  and  looked  in. 

"  Have  them  broiled  for  my  supper,"  she 
said  with  a  little  click  of  the  teeth,  and  hand- 


422       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

ing  the  basket  to  the  maid,  passed  on  into 
her  bedroom. 

Harriet  had  been  spending  the  day  away 
from  home.  She  returned  late.  The  maid 
met  her  at  the  front  door  and  a  few  moments 
of  conversation  followed.  She  hurried  into 
the  supper  room  ;  Mrs.  Conyers  sat  alone. 

"  Mother,"  exclaimed  Harriet  with  horror, 
"  have  you  eaten  my  squabs  ?  " 

Mrs.  Conyers  stabbed  at  a  little  pile  of 
bones  on  the  side  plate.  "  This  is  what  is 
left  of  them,"  she  said,  touching  a  napkin  to 
her  gustatory  lips.  "  There  are  your  leaves," 
she  added,  pointing  to  a  little  vase  in  front 
of  Harriet's  plate.  "  When  is  he  going  to 
send  you  some  more  ?  But  tell  him  we  have 
geraniums." 

The  next  day  Ambrose  received  a  note  : 

"DEAR  MR.  WEBB:  I  have  been  think 
ing  how  pleasant  my  visit  to  you  was  that 
morning.  It  has  not  been  possible  for  me 
to  get  the  carriage  since  or  I  should  have 
been  out  to  thank  you  for  your  beautiful 
present.  The  squabs  appealed  to  me.  A 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       423 

man  who  loves  them  must  have  tender  feel 
ing  ;  and  that  is  what  all  my  life  I  have  been 
saying :  Give  me  a  man  with  a  heart !  Some 
time  when  you  are  in  town,  I  may  meet  you 
on  the  street  somewhere  and  then  I  can 
thank  you  more  fully  than  I  do  now.  I 
shall  always  cherish  the  memory  of  your 
kind  deed.  You  must  give  me  the  chance 
to  thank  you  very  soon,  or  I  shall  fear  that 
you  do  not  care  for  my  thanks.  I  take  a 
walk  about  eleven  o'clock. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"HARRIET  CRANE." 

Ambrose  must  have  received  the  note. 

A  few  weeks  later  Miss  Anna  one  morn 
ing  received  one  herself  delivered  by  a  boy 
who  had  ridden  in  from  the  farm ;  the  boy 
waited  with  a  large  basket  while  she  read : 

"  DEAREST  ANNA  :  It  is  a  matter  of  very 
little  importance  to  mention  to  you  of  course, 
but  I  am  married.  My  husband  and  I  were 

married  at yesterday  afternoon.     He  met 

me  at  an  appointed  place  and  we  drove  quietly 


424       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

out  of  town.  What  I  want  you  to  do  at 
once  is,  send  me  some  clothes,  for  I  left 
all  the  Conyers  apparel  where  it  belonged. 
Send  me  something  of  everything.  And  as 
soon  as  I  am  pinned  in,  I  shall  invite  you 
out.  Of  course  I  shall  now  give  orders  for 
whatever  I  desire  ;  and  then  I  shall  return 
to  Mrs.  Conyers  the  things  I  used  on  my 
bridal  trip. 

"  This  is  a  very  hurried  note,  and  of  course 
I  have  not  very  much  to  say  as  yet  about  my 
new  life.  As  for  my  husband,  I  can  at  least 
declare  with  perfect  sincerity  that  he  is  mine. 
I  have  made  one  discovery  already,  Anna : 
he  cannot  be  bent  except  where  he  has  already 
been  broken.  I  am  discovering  the  broken 
places  and  shall  govern  him  accordingly. 

cc  Do  try  to  marry,  Anna  !  You  have  no 
idea  how  a  married  woman  feels  toward  one 
of  her  sex  who  is  single. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  sure  to  stand  at  the 
windows  about  five  o'clock  this  afternoon 
and  see  the  Conyers'  cows  all  come  travelling 
home :  they  graze  no  more  these  heavenly 
pastures.  It  will  be  the  first  intimation 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       425 

that  Mrs.  Conyers  receives  that  I  am  no 
longer  the  unredeemed  daughter  of  her 
household.  Her  curiosity  will,  of  course, 
bring  her  out  here  as  fast  as  the  horse  can 
travel.  But,  oh,  Anna,  my  day  has  come  at 
last !  At  last  she  shall  realize  that  I  am 
strong,  strong  !  1  shall  receive  her  with  the 
front  door  locked  and  talk  to  her  out  of  the 
window ;  and  I  expect  to  talk  to  her  a  long, 
long  time.  I  shall  have  the  flowers  moved 
from  the  porch  to  keep  them  from  freezing 
during  that  interview. 

"  As  soon  as  I  am  settled,  as  one  has  so 
much  more  time  in  the  country  than  in 
town,  I  may,  after  all,  take  up  that  course 
of  reading  :  would  you  object  ? 

"  It's  a  wise  saying  that  every  new  expe 
rience  brings  some  new  trouble  :   I  longed  for 
youth  before  I  married ;   but  to  marry  after 
you  are  old  —  that,  Anna,  is  sorrow  indeed. 
"  Your  devoted  friend, 

"  HARRIET  CRANE  WEBB. 

"  P.S.  Don't  send  any  but  the  plainest 
things ;  for  I  remember,  noble  friend,  how 
it  pains  you  to  see  me  overdressed" 


IX 


IT  was  raining  steadily  and  the  night  was 
cold.  Miss  Anna  came  hurriedly  down  into 
the  library  soon  after  supper.  She  had  on 
an  old  waterproof;  and  in  one  hand  she 
carried  a  man's  cotton  umbrella  —  her  own 
—  and  in  the  other  a  pair  of  rubbers.  As 
she  sat  down  and  drew  these  over  her  coarse 
walking  shoes,  she  talked  in  the  cheery  tone 
of  one  who  has  on  hand  some  congenial 
business. 

"  I  may  get  back  late  and  I  may  not  get 
back  at  all ;  it  depends  upon  how  the  child 
is.  But  I  wish  it  would  not  rain  when  poor 
little  children  are  sick  at  night  —  it  is  the 
one  thing  that  gives  me  the  blues.  And  I 
wish  infants  could  speak  out  and  tell  their 
symptoms.  When  I  see  grown  people  get 
ting  well  as  soon  as  they  can  minutely  nar 
rate  to  you  all  their  ailments,  my  heart  goes 
out  to  babies.  Think  how  they  would  crow 
and  gurgle,  if  they  could  only  say  what  it  is 
426 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       427 

all  about.  But  I  don't  see  why  people  at 
large  should  not  be  licensed  to  bring  in  a 
bill  when  their  friends  insist  upon  describing 
their  maladies  to  them  :  doctors  do.  But  I 
must  be  going.  Good  night." 

She  rose  and  stamped  her  feet  into  the 
rubbers  to  make  them  fit  securely ;  and  then 
she  came  across  to  the  lamp-lit  table  beside 
which  he  sat  watching  her  fondly  —  his  book 
dropped  the  while  upon  his  lap.  He  grasped 
her  large  strong  hand  in  his  large  strong 
hand ;  and  she  leaned  her  side  against  his 
shoulder  and  put  her  arm  around  his  neck. 

"  You  are  getting  younger,  Anna,"  he 
said,  looking  up  into  her  face  and  drawing 
her  closer. 

£C  Why  not  ? "  she  answered  with  a  voice 
of  splendid  joy.  "  Harriet  is  married  ;  what 
troubles  have  I,  then?  And  she  patronizes 
—  or  matronizes  —  me  and  tyrannizes  over 
Ambrose :  so  the  world  is  really  succeeding 
at  last.  But  I  wish  her  husband  had  not 
asked  me  first ;  that  is  her  thorn." 

"  And  the  thorn  will  grow  !  " 

"  Now,  don't  sit  up  late !  "  she  pleaded. 


428        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  I  turned  your  bed  down  and  arranged  the 
pillows  wrong  end  out  as  you  will  have  them; 
and  I  put  out  your  favorite  night-shirt  — 
the  one  with  the  sleeves  torn  off  above  the 
elbows  and  the  ravellings  hanging  down  just 
as  you  require.  Aren't  you  tired  of  books 
yet  ?  Are  you  never  going  to  get  tired  ? 
And  the  same  books!  Why,  I  get  fresh 
babies  every  few  years  —  a  complete  change." 

"  How  many  generations  of  babies  do  you 
suppose  there  have  been  since  this  immortal 
infant  was  born  ?  "  he  asked,  laying  his  hand 
reverently  over  the  book  on  his  lap  as  if 
upon  the  head  of  a  divine  child. 

"  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,"  she  re 
plied.  cc  I  wish  the  immortal  infant  would 
let  you  alone."  She  stooped  and  kissed  his 
brow,  and  wrung  his  hand  silently,  and  went 
out  into  the  storm.  He  heard  her  close  the 
street  door  and  heard  the  rusty  click  of  her 
cotton  umbrella  as  she  raised  it.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  table  at  his  elbow  and  kindled 
his  deep-bowled  pipe  and  drew  over  his  legs 
the  skirts  of  his  long  gown,  coarse,  austere, 
sombre. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       429 

He  looked  comfortable.  A  rainy  night 
may  depress  a  woman  nursiag  a  sick  child 
that  is  not  her  own  —  a  child  already  fight 
ing  for  its  feeble,  unclaimed,  repudiated  life, 
in  a  world  of  weeping  clouds ;  but  such  a 
night  diffuses  cheer  when  the  raindrops  are 
heard  tapping  the  roof  above  beloved  book 
shelves,  tapping  the  window-panes ;  when 
there  is  low  music  in  the  gutter  on  the  back 
porch ;  when  a  student  lamp,  throwing  its 
shadow  over  the  ceiling  and  the  walls,  re 
serves  its  exclusive  lustre  for  lustrous  pages 
—  pages  over  which  men  for  centuries  have 
gladly  burnt  out  the  oil  of  their  brief  lamps, 
their  iron  and  bronze,  their  silver  and  gold 
and  jewelled  lamps  —  many-colored  eyes  of 
the  nights  of  ages. 

It  was  now  middle  September  of  another 
year  and  Professor  Hardage  had  entered 
upon  the  work  of  another  session.  The  in 
terval  had  left  no  outward  mark  on  him. 
The  mind  stays  young  a  long  time  when 
nourished  by  a  body  such  as  his ;  and  the 
body  stays  young  a  long  time  when  mastered 
by  such  a  mind.  Day  by  day  faithfully  to  do 


430       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

one's  work  and  to  be  restless  for  no  more ; 
without  bitterness  to  accept  obscurity  for 
ambition ;  to  possess  all  vital  passions  and 
to  govern  them  ;  to  stand  on  the  world's 
thoroughfare  and  see  the  young  generations 
hurrying  by,  and  to  put  into  the  hands  of  a 
youth  here  and  there  a  light  which  will  burn 
long  after  our  own  personal  taper  is  extin 
guished;  to  look  back  upon  the  years  already 
gone  as  not  without  usefulness  and  honor, 
and  forward  to  what  may  remain  as  safe  at 
least  from  failure  or  any  form  of  shame,  and 
thus  for  one's  self  to  feel  the  humility  of  the 
part  before  the  greatness  of  the  whole  of  life, 
and  yet  the  privileges  and  duties  of  the  indi 
vidual  to  the  race  —  this  brings  blessedness 
if  it  does  not  always  bring  happiness,  and  it 
had  brought  both  to  him. 

He  sat  at  peace  beside  his  lamp.  The 
interval  had  brought  changes  to  his  towns 
people.  As  he  had  walked  home  this  after 
noon,  he  had  paused  and  looked  across  at 
some  windows  of  the  second  story  of  a  fa 
miliar  corner.  The  green  shutters,  tightly 
closed,  were  gray  with  cobweb  and  with  dust. 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       431 

One  sagged  from  a  loosened  hinge  and 
flapped  in  the  rising  autumn  wind,  showing 
inside  a  window  sash  also  dust-covered  and 
with  a  newspaper  crammed  through  a  broken 
pane.  Where  did  Ravenel  Morris  live  now? 
Did  he  live  at  all  ? 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  look  through  the 
distances  of  human  history,  to  traverse  the 
areas  of  its  religions  and  see  how  its  great 
conflicting  faiths  have  each  claimed  the  unique 
name  of  revelation  for  itself,  he  could  not 
anywhere  discover  what  to  him  was  clear 
proof  either  of  the  separate  existence  of  the 
soul  or  of  its  immortal  life  hereafter.  The 
security  of  that  belief  was  denied  him.  He 
had  wished  for  it,  had  tried  to  make  it  his. 
But  while  it  never  became  a  conviction,  it 
remained  a  force.  Under  all  that  reason 
could  affirm  or  could  deny,  there  dwelt  un 
accountable  confidence  that  the  light  of  hu 
man  life,  leaping  from  headland  to  headland, 
—  the  long  transmitted  radiance  of  thought, — 
was  not  to  go  out  with  the  inevitable  physical 
extinction  of  the  species  on  this  planet.  Some 
where  in  the  universe  he  expected  to  meet  his 


432       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

own,  all  whom  he  had  loved,  and  to  see  this 
friend.  Meantime,  he  accepted  the  fact  of 
death  in  the  world  with  that  uncomplaining 
submission  to  nature  which  is  in  the  strength 
and  sanity  of  genius.  As  acquaintances  left 
him,  one  after  another,  memory  but  kindled 
another  lamp ;  hope  but  disclosed  another 
white  flower  on  its  mysterious  stem. 

He  sat  at  peace.  The  walls  of  the  library 
showed  their  changes.  There  were  valuable 
maps  on  Caesar's  campaigns  which  had  been 
sent  him  from  Berlin  ;  there  were  other  maps 
from  Athens  ;  there  was  something  from  the 
city  of  Hannibal,  and  something  from  Tiber. 
Indeed,  there  were  not  many  places  in  Isa 
bel's  wandering  from  which  she  had  not  sent 
home  to  him  some  proof  that  he  was  remem 
bered.  And  always  she  sent  letters  which 
were  more  than  maps  or  books,  being  in  them 
selves  charts  to  the  movements  of  her  spirit. 
They  were  regular ;  they  were  frank ;  they 
assured  him  how  increasingly  she  needed  his 
friendship.  When  she  returned,  she  declared 
she  would  settle  down  to  be  near  him  for  the 
rest  of  life.  Few  names  were  mentioned  in 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       433 

these  letters  :  never  Rowan's ;  never  Mrs. 
Osborn's  —  that  lifelong  friendship  having 
been  broken  ;  and  in  truth  since  last  March 
young  Mrs.  Osborn's  eyes  had  been  sealed 
to  the  reading  of  all  letters.  But  beneath 
everything  else,  he  could  always  trace  the 
presence  of  one  unspoken  certainty  —  that 
she  was  passing  through  the  deeps  without 
herself  knowing  what  height  or  what  heath 
her  feet  would  reach  at  last,  there  to  abide. 

As  he  had  walked  homeward  this  afternoon 
through  the  dusk,  something  else  had  drawn 
his  attention :  he  was  passing  the  Conyers 
homestead,  and  already  lights  were  beginning 
to  twinkle  in  the  many  windows ;  there  was 
to  be  a  ball  that  night,  and  he  thought  of  the 
unconquerable  woman  ruling  within,  appar 
ently  gaining  still  in  vitality  and  youth. 
"  Unj ailed  malefactors  often  attain  great 
ages,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  turned  away 
and  thought  of  the  lives  she  had  helped  to 
blight  and  shorten. 

As  the  night  advanced,  he  fell  under  the 
influence  of  his  book,  was  drawn  out  of  his 
poor  house,  away  from  his  obscure  town,  his 

2F 


434       TAe  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

unknown  college,  quitted  his  country  and 
his  age,  passing  backward  until  there  fell 
around  him  the  glorious  dawn  of  the  race 
before  the  sunrise  of  written  history  :  the  im 
mortal  still  trod  the  earth  ;  the  human  soldier 
could  look  away  from  his  earthly  battle-field 
and  see,  standing  on  a  mountain  crest,  the 
figure  and  the  authority  of  his  Divine  Com 
mander.  Once  more  it  was  the  flower-dyed 
plain,  blood-dyed  as  well ;  the  ships  drawn 
up  by  the  gray,  the  wrinkled  sea ;  over  on 
the  other  side,  well-built  Troy ;  and  the  cri 
sis  of  the  long  struggle  was  coming.  Hec 
tor,  of  the  glancing  plume,  had  come  back 
to  the  city  for  the  last  time,  mindful  of  his 
end. 

He  read  once  more  through  the  old  scene 
that  is  never  old,  and  then  put  his  book 
aside  and  sat  thinking  of  Hector's  words : 
"  /  know  not  if  the  gods  will  not  overthrow  me. 
.  .  .  I  have  very  sore  shame  if,  like  a  coward, 
I  shrink  away  from  battle ;  moreover  mine  own 
soul  for biddeth  me.  .  .  .  Destiny  .  .  .  no  man 
hath  escaped,  be  he  coward  or  be  he  valiant, 
when  once  he  hath  been  born." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       435 

His  eyes  had  never  rested  on  any  spot  in 
human  history,  however  separated  in  time 
and  place,  where  the  force  of  those  words 
did  not  seem  to  reign.  Whatsoever  the 
names  under  which  men  have  conceived  and 
worshipped  their  gods  or  their  God,  how 
ever  much  they  have  believed  that  it  was 
these  or  it  was  He  who  overthrew  them  and 
made  their  destinies  inescapable,  after  all,  it 
is  the  high  compulsion  of  the  soul  itself,  the 
final  mystery  of  personal  choice,  that  sends 
us  forth  at  last  to  our  struggles  and  to  our 
peace  :  "  mine  own  soul  forbiddeth  me"  — 
there  for  each  is  right  and  wrong,  the  eternal 
beauty  of  virtue. 

He  did  not  notice  the  sound  of  approach 
ing  wheels,  and  that  the  sound  ceased  at  his 
door. 

A  moment  later  and  Isabel  with  light 
footsteps  stood  before  him.  He  sprang  up 
with  a  cry  and  put  his  arms  around  her  and 
held  her. 

"  You  shall  never  go  away  again." 

"  No,  I  am  never  going  away  again ;  I 
have  come  back  to  marry  Rowan. " 


436       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

These  were  her  first  words  to  him  as  they 
sat  face  to  face.  And  she  quickly  went  on : 
"How  is  he?" 

He  shook  his  head  reproachfully  at  her: 
"  When  I  saw  him  at  least  he  seemed  better 
than  you  seem." 

"  I  knew  he  was  not  well  —  I  have  known 
it  for  a  long  time.  But  you  saw  him  —  in 
town  —  on  the  street  —  with  his  friends  — 
attending  to  business  ?  " 

"Yes  —  in  town — on  the  street  —  with 
his  friends  —  attending  to  business." 

"  May  I  stay  here  ?  I  ordered  my  lug 
gage  to  be  sent  here." 

"  Your  room  is  ready  and  has  always  been 
ready  and  waiting  since  the  day  you  left.  I 
think  Anna  has  been  putting  fresh  flowers 
in  it  all  autumn.  You  will  find  some  there 
to-night.  She  has  insisted  of  late  that  you 
would  soon  be  coming  home." 

An  hour  later  she  came  down  into  the 
library  again.  She  had  removed  the  traces 
of  travel,  and  she  had  travelled  slowly  and 
was  not  tired.  All  this  enabled  him  to  see 
how  changed  she  was ;  and  without  looking 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       437 

older,  how  strangely  oldened  and  grown  how 
quiet  of  spirit.  She  had  now  indeed  become 
sister  for  him  to  those  images  of  beauty  that 
were  always  haunting  him  —  those  far,  dim 
images  of  the  girlhood  of  her  sex,  with  their 
faces  turned  away  from  the  sun  and  their  eyes 
looking  downward,  pensive  in  shadow,  too 
freighted  with  thoughts  of  their  brief  fate 
and  their  immortality. 

<c  I  must  have  a  long  talk  with  you  before 
I  try  to  sleep.  I  must  empty  my  heart  to 
you  once." 

He  knew  that  she  needed  the  relief,  and 
that  what  she  asked  of  him  during  these 
hours  would  be  silence. 

c<  I  have  tried  everything,  and  everything 
has  failed.  I  have  tried  absence,  but  absence 
has  not  separated  me  from  him.  I  have 
tried  silence,  but  through  the  silence  I  have 
never  ceased  speaking  to  him.  Nothing  has 
really  ever  separated  us ;  nothing  ever  can. 
It  is  more  than  will  or  purpose,  it  is  my  life. 
It  is  more  than  life  to  me,  it  is  love." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  and  at  first  she 
seemed  unable  to  progress  very  far  from  the 


438        The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

beginning.  After  every  start,  she  soon  came 
back  to  that  one  beginning. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  weigh  the  right  and 
the  wrong  of  it :  I  tried  that  at  first,  and  I 
suppose  that  is  why  I  made  sad  mistakes. 
You  must  not  think  that  I  am  acting  now 
from  a  sense  of  duty  to  him  or  to  myself. 
Duty  does  not  enter  into  my  feeling  :  it  is 
love;  all  that  I  am  forbids  me  to  do  any 
thing  else." 

But  after  a  while  she  went  back  and  bared 
before  him  in  a  way  the  history  of  her  heart. 

"  The  morning  after  he  told  me,  I  went  to 
church.  I  remember  the  lessons  of  the  day 
and  the  hymns,  and  how  I  left  the  church  be 
fore  the  sermon,  because  everything  seemed 
to  be  on  his  side,  and  no  one  was  on  mine. 
He  had  done  wrong  and  was  guilty;  and  I 
had  done  no  wrong  and  was  innocent ;  and  the 
church  comforted  him  and  overlooked  me ; 
and  I  was  angry  and  walked  out  of  it. 

"  And  do  you  remember  the  day  I  came 
to  see  you  and  you  proposed  everything  to 
me,  and  I  rejected  everything?  You  told 
me  to  go  away  for  a  while,  to  throw  myself 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       439 

into  the  pleasures  of  other  people ;  you  re 
minded  me  of  prayer  and  of  the  duty  of  for 
giveness  ;  you  told  me  to  try  to  put  myself 
in  his  place,  and  reminded  me  of  self-sacrifice, 
and  then  said  at  last  that  I  must  leave  it  to 
time,  which  sooner  or  later  settles  everything. 
I  rejected  everything  that  you  suggested. 
But  I  have  accepted  everything  since,  and 
have  learned  a  lesson  and  a  service  from 
each:  the  meaning  of  prayer  and  of  forgive 
ness  and  of  self-sacrifice ;  and  what  the  lapse 
of  time  can  do  to  bring  us  to  ourselves  and 
show  us  what  we  wish.  I  say,  I  have  lived 
through  all  these,  and  I  have  gotten  some 
thing  out  of  them  all;  but  however  much 
they  may  mean,  they  never  constitute  love; 
and  it  is  my  love  that  brings  me  back  to  him 


now." 


Later  on  she  recurred  to  the  idea  of  self- 
sacrifice:  much  of  her  deepest  feeling  seemed 
to  gather  about  that. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  realize  what 
it  means  to  a  woman  when  a  principle  like 
this  is  involved.  Can  any  man  ever  know  ? 
Does  he  dream  what  it  means  to  us  women 


440       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

to  sacrifice  ourselves  as  they  often  require  us 
to  do?  I  have  been  travelling  in  old  lands 
—  so  old  that  the  history  of  each  goes  back 
until  we  can  follow  it  with  our  eyes  no 
longer.  But  as  far  as  we  can  see,  we  see  this 
sorrow  —  the  sorrow  of  women  who  have 
wished  to  be  first  in  the  love  of  the  men 
they  have  loved.  You,  who  read  every 
thing  !  Cannot  you  see  them  standing  all 
through  history,  the  sad  figures  of  girls 
who  have  only  asked  for  what  they  gave, 
love  in  its  purity  and  its  singleness — have 
only  asked  that  there  should  have  been  no 
other  before  them  ?  And  cannot  you  see 
what  a  girl  feels  when  she  consents  to  accept 
anything  less,  —  that  she  is  lowered  to  her 
self  from  that  time  on,  —  has  lost  her  own 
ideal  of  herself,  as  well  as  her  ideal  of  the 
man  she  loves  ?  And  cannot  you  see  how 
she  lowers  herself  in  his  eyes  also  and  ceases 
to  be  his  ideal,  through  her  willingness  to 
live  with  him  on  a  lower  plane  ?  That  is 
our  wound.  That  is  our  trouble  and  our 
sorrow:  I  have  found  it  wherever  I  have 
gone." 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture      44 1 

Long  before  she  said  this  to  him,  she  had 
questioned  him  closely  about  Rowan.  He 
withheld  from  her  knowledge  of  some  things 
which  he  thought  she  could  better  bear  to 
learn  later  and  by  degrees. 

"  I  knew  he  was  net  well,"  she  said  ;  cc  I 
feared  it  might  be  worse.  Let  me  tell  you 
this  :  no  one  knows  him  as  I  do.  I  must 
speak  plainly.  First,  there  was  his  trouble ; 
that  shattered  for  him  one  ideal  in  his  life. 
Then  this  drove  him  to  a  kind  of  self-con 
cealment  ;  and  that  wounded  another  ideal 
—  his  love  of  candor.  Then  he  asked  me 
to  marry  him,  and  he  told  me  the  truth 
about  himself  and  I  turned  him  off.  Then 
came  the  scandals  that  tried  to  take  away  his 
good  name,  and  I  suppose  have  taken  it 
away.  And  then,  through  all  this,  were  the 
sufferings  he  was  causing  others  around  him, 
and  the  earlier  loss  of  his  mother.  I  have 
lived  through  all  these  things  with  him  while 
I  have  been  away,  and  I  understand ;  they 
sap  life.  I  am  going  up  to  write  to  him 
now,  and  will  you  post  the  letter  to-night  ? 
I  wish  him  to  come  to  see  me  at  once,  and 


442       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

our   marriage   must  take    place  as   soon  as 
possible  —  here  —  very  quietly." 

Rowan  came  the  next  afternoon.  She 
was  in  the  library ;  and  he  went  in  and  shut 
the  door,  and  they  were  left  alone. 

Professor  Hardage  and  Miss  Anna  sat  in 
an  upper  room.  He  had  no  book  and  she 
had  no  work  ;  they  were  thinking  only  of  the 
two  downstairs.  And  they  spoke  to  each 
other  in  undertones,  breaking  the  silence  with 
brief  sentences,  as  persons  speak  when  await 
ing  news  from  sick-rooms. 

Daylight  faded.  Outside  the  lamplighter 
passed,  torching  the  grimy  lamps.  Miss 
Anna  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper :  "  Shall  I 
have  some  light  sent  in  ?  " 

"  No,  Anna." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  what  the  doctors  have 
said  about  his  health  ? " 

"  No  ;  there  was  bad  news  enough  without 
that  for  one  day.  He  will  tell  her.  And  then 
happiness  might  bring  back  health  to  him. 
The  malady  that  has  attacked  him  will  have 
to  be  put  down  as  one  of  the  consequences 


The  Mettle   of  the  Pasture      443 

of  all  that  has  occurred  to  him  —  as  part  of 
what  he  is  and  of  what  he  has  done.     The 
origin   of  physical   disease    may  lie    in    our 
troubles  —  our  nervous  shocks,  our  remorses, 
and  better  strivings." 
The  supper  hour  came. 
"  I  do  not  wish  any  supper,  Anna." 
"  Nor  I.     How  long  they  stay  together  !  " 
"  They  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each 
other,  Anna." 

"  I  know,  I  know.     Poor  children  !  " 
"  I  believe  he  is  only  twenty-five." 
"  When  Isabel  comes  up,  do  you  think  I 
ought  to  go  to  her  room  and  see  whether  she 
wants  anything  ? " 
"  No,  Anna." 

"  And  she  must  not  know  that  we  have  been 
sitting  up,  as  though  we  felt  sorry  for  them 
and  could  not  go  on  with  our  own  work." 

"  I  met  Marguerite  and  Barbee  this  after 
noon  walking  together.  I  suppose  she  will 
come  back  to  him  at  last.  But  she  has  had 
her  storm,  and  he  knows  it,  and  he  knows 
there  will  never  be  any  storm  for  him.  She 
is  another  one  of  those  girls  of  mine  —  not 


444       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

sad,  but  with  half  the  sun  shining  on  them 
But   half  a  sun  shining  steadily,  as  it  will 
always  shine  on  her,  is  a  great  deal.*' 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Miss  Anna,  in  a  whisper, 
"he  is  gone!     Isabel  is  coming  up  the  steps." 

They  heard  her  and  then  they  did  not  hear 
her,  and  then  again  and  then  not  again. 

Miss  Anna  started  up  : 

"  She  needs  me  !  " 

He  held  her  back  : 

"  No,  Anna !     Not  to  help  her  is  to  help 
her." 


ONE  afternoon  late  in  the  autumn  of  the 
following  year,  when  a  waiting  stillness  lay 
on  the  land  and  shimmering  sunlight  opened 
up  the  lonely  spaces  of  woods  and  fields,  the 
Reaper  who  comes  to  all  men  and  reaps  what 
they  have  sown,  approached  the  home  of  the 
Merediths  and  announced  his  arrival  to  the 
young  master  of  the  house :  he  would  await 
his  pleasure. 

Rowan  had  been  sitting  up,  propped  by 
his  pillows.  It  was  the  room  of  his  grand 
father  as  it  had  been  that  of  the  man  pre 
ceding  ;  the  bed  had  been  their  bed ;  and 
the  first  to  place  it  where  it  stood  may  have 
had  in  mind  a  large  window,  through  which 
as  he  woke  from  his  nightly  sleep  he  might 
look  far  out  upon  the  land,  upon  rolling 
stately  acres. 

Rowan  looked  out  now :  past  the  ever 
greens  just  outside  to  the  shining  lawn  be- 
445 


446       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

yond ;  and  farther  away,  upon  fields  of 
brown  shocks  —  guiltless  harvest ;  then 
toward  a  pasture  on  the  horizon.  He  could 
see  his  cattle  winding  slowly  along  the  edge 
of  a  russet  woodland  on  which  the  slanting 
sunlight  fell.  Against  the  blue  sky  in  the 
silvery  air  a  few  crows  were  flying :  all  went 
in  the  same  direction  but  each  went  without 
companions.  He  watched  their  wings  curi 
ously  with  lonely,  following  eyes.  Whither 
home  passed  they  ?  And  by  whose  sum 
mons  ?  And  with  what  guidance  ? 

A  deep  yearning  stirred  him,  and  he 
summoned  his  wife  and  the  nurse  with  his 
infant  son.  He  greeted  her ;  then  raising 
himself  on  one  elbow  and  leaning  over  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  he  looked  a  long  time  at 
the  boy  slumbering  on  the  nurse's  lap. 

The  lesson  of  his  brief  span  of  years 
gathered  into  his  gaze. 

"  Life  of  my  life,"  he  said,  with  that 
lesson  on  his  lips,  "  sign  of  my  love,  of 
what  was  best  in  me,  this  is  my  prayer  for 
you :  may  you  find  one  to  love  you  such 
as  your  father  found ;  when  you  come  to 


The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture       447 

ask  her  to  unite  her  life  with  yours,  may  you 
be  prepared  to  tell  her  the  truth  about  your 
self,  and  have  nothing  to  tell  that  would 
break  her  heart  and  break  the  hearts  of 
others.  May  it  be  said  of  you  that  you 
are  a  better  man  than  your  father." 

He  had  the  child  lifted  and  he  kissed  his 
forehead  and  his  eyes.  "  By  the  purity  of 
your  own  life  guard  the  purity  of  your  sons 
for  the  long  honor  of  our  manhood."  Then 
he  made  a  sign  that  the  nurse  should  with 
draw. 

When  she  had  withdrawn,  he  put  his  face 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  pillow  where  his 
wife  knelt,  her  face  hidden.  His  hair  fell 
over  and  mingled  with  her  hair.  He  passed 
his  arm  around  her  neck  and  held  her  close. 

"  All  your  troubles  came  to  you  because 
you  were  true  to  the  highest.  You  asked 
only  the  highest  from  me,  and  the  highest 
was  more  than  I  could  give.  But  be  kind 
to  my  memory.  Try  to  forget  what  is  best 
forgotten,  but  remember  what  is  worth  re 
membering.  Judge  me  for  what  I  was ;  but 
judge  me  also  for  what  I  wished  to  be. 


448       The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

Teach  my  son  to  honor  my  name ;  and 
when  he  is  old  enough  to  understand,  tell 
him  the  truth  about  his  father.  Tell  him 
what  it  was  that  saddened  our  lives.  As  he 
looks  into  his  mother's  face,  it  will  steady 
him." 

He  put  both  arms  around  her  neck. 

"  I  am  tired  of  it  all,"  he  said.  "  I  want 
rest.  Love  has  been  more  cruel  to  me  than 
death." 

A  few  days  later,  an  afternoon  of  the  same 
autumnal  stillness,  they  bore  him  across  his 
threshold  with  that  gentleness  which  so  often 
comes  too  late  —  slowly  through  his  many- 
colored  woods,  some  leaves  drifting  down 
upon  the  sable  plumes  and  lodging  in 
them  —  along  the  turnpike  lined  with  dusty 
thistles  —  through  the  watching  town,  a  long 
procession,  to  the  place  of  the  unreturning. 

They  laid  him  with  his  fathers. 


THE   REIGN   OF   LAW 

A   Tale  of   the   Kentucky   Hempfields 

By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 
Author  of  "  The  Choir  Invisible,"  "  A  KenUtcky  Cardinal,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  J.  C.  EARL  and  HARRY  FENN 
Cloth.    i2mo.    $1,50 


'  The  whole  book  is  a  brilliant  defence  of  Evolution,  a  scholarly  state 
ment  of  the  case.  Never  before  has  that  great  science  been  so  presented; 
never  before  has  there  been  such  a  passionate  yet  thrilling  appeal." 

.  —  Courier  Journal. 

"  This  is  a  tremendous  subject  to  put  into  a  novel ;  but  the  effort  is  so 
daring,  and  the  treatment  so  frank  and  masterly  on  its  scientific  side,  that 
the  book  is  certain  to  command  a  wide  hearing,  perhaps  to  provoke  wide 
controversy."  —  Tribune,  Chicago. 

"  '  When  a  man  has  heard  the  great  things  calling  to  him,  how  they  call, 
and  call,  day  and  night,  day  and  night ! '  This  is  really  the  foundation  idea, 
the  golden  text,  of  Mr.  James  Lane  Allen's  new  and  remarkable  novel." 

—  Evening  Transcript,  Boston. 

"  In  all  the  characteristics  that  give  Mr.  Allen's  novels  such  distinction 
and  charm  '  The  Reign  of  Law  '  is  perhaps  supreme  .  .  .  but  it  is  pre 
eminently  the  study  of  a  soul  .  .  .  religion  is  here  the  dominant  note." 

—  The  New  York  Times'  Saturday  Review. 

"  In  David  there  is  presented  one  of  the  noblest  types  of  our  fiction ; 
the  incarnation  of  brilliant  mentality  and  splendid  manhood.  ...  No 
portrait  in  contemporary  literature  is  more  symbolic  of  truth  and  honor." 

—  The  Times,  Louisville. 

"  Mr.  Allen  has  a  style  as  original  and  almost  as  perfectly  finished  as 
Hawthorne's,  and  he  has  also  Hawthorne's  fondness  for  spiritual  sug 
gestion  that  makes  all  his  stories  rich  in  the  qualities  that  are  lacking  in  so 
many  novels  of  the  period.  ...  If  read  in  the  right  way,  it  cannot  fail 
to  add  to  one's  spiritual  possessions."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

Cloth,      ismo.     $1.50.     New  edition  with  illustra 
tions  by  Orson  Lowell,  $2.50 


*  One  reads  the  story  for  the  story's  sake,  and  then  re-reads  the 
book  out  of  pure  delight  in  its  beauty.  The  story  is  American  to 

the  very  core Mr.  Allen  stands  to-day  in  the  front  rank  of 

American  novelists.  '  The  Choir  Invisible '  will  solidify  a  reputation 
already  established  and  bring  iijto  clear  light  his  rare  gifts  as  an 
artist.  For  this  latest  story  is  as  genuine  a  work  of  art  as  has  come 
from  an  American  hand."  — HAMILTON  MABIE  in  The  Outlook. 

"  The  humor  and  grace  .  .  .  we  have  had  in  our  fiction ;  the  pu 
rity  of  tone  also.  ,  .  .  But  the  imaginative  beauty  which  lies  deep  at 
the  root  of  things  .  .  .  this  is  a  rarer  grace,  a  more  enduring  quality 
of  fine  literature.  .  .  .  This  beauty  has  lain  in  other  books  by  Mr. 
Allen,  but  in  none,  we  think,  has  it  been  under  such  high  command 
as  in  this."  —  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  Highly  praised  and  with  reason.  It  is  written  with  singular 
delicacy  and  has  an  old  world  fragrance  which  seems  to  come  from 
the  classics  we  keep  in  lavender."  —  From  the  Daily  Chronicle,  Lon 
don. 

"  There  are  descriptive  passages  so  exquisitely  wrought  that  the 
reader  lingers  over  them  to  make  them  a  possession  forever ;  there 
are  inner  experiences  so  intensely  realized  that  they  become  a  part 
of  the  life  of  his  own  soul." —  The  Dial,  Chicago. 

"  He  has  given  us  something  strong,  deep,  reverential,  that  will 
teach  us  how  to  live."  —  The  Bookman. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE.  NEW  YORK 


SUMMER  IN  ARCADY 

A  TALE  OF  NATURE 

BY 

JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

Author  V  "A  Kentucky  Cardinal,"  "  Aftermath?  "  The  Blue  Grtut 

Region  of  Kentucky"  etc. 

16  mo.    Cloth.    $1.25 


"  This  story  by  James  Lane  Allen  is  one  of  the  gems  of  the 
season.  It  is  artistic  in  its  setting,  realistic  and  true  to  nature 
and  life  in  its  descriptions,  dramatic,  pathetic,  tragic,  in  its  in 
cidents;  indeed,  a  veritable  gem  that  must  become  classic.  It 
is  difficult  to  give  an  outline  of  the  story;  it  is  one  of  the  stories 
which  do  not  outline;  it  must  be  read."  —  Boston  Daily  Adver 
tiser. 

"The  close  communion  and  sympathy  with  Nature,  and  the 
noble  interpretation  of  her  wayward  moods  and  changing 
phases,  manifested  in  '  A  Kentucky  Cardinal '  and  '  Aftermath ' 
find  nobler,  sweeter,  ampler  expression  in  the  luminous,  sunlit, 
sun-flushed  pages  of  his  new  story."  —  The  Bookman. 

"  The  book  continually  gladdens  the  aesthetic  sense  with  its 
luxurious  and  chaste  objective  imagery.  It  shows  a  marked 
advance  in  the  author's  power  of  vivid  dialogue,  and  though 
the  nature  of  its  materials  will  prevent  its  being  called  the  most 
beautiful  of  his  stories,  it  is  yet  likely  to  attain  the  widest  cir 
culation  and  to  be  a  stepping-stone  to  higher  things."  —  Thi 
Chicago  Tribune. 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVEHUE,    HEW  YORK 


NEW  EDITIONS 

The  Blue  Grass  Region  of   Kentucky 

By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 
Cloth,  I2mo.     Illustrated.    $1.50 

"  •  The  simple,  rural  key-note  of  life  is  still  the  sweetest,'  he  had  written 
In  the  opening  pages  of  'The  Blue  Grass  Region  of  Kentucky';  and  it  is 
this  note  which,  played  on  the  pipes  of  Pan  in  ever-recurring  and  fresh 
variations,  yields  the'  sweetest  music,  and,  touched  with  the  breath  of  his 
passion  for  nature,  is  transmuted  into  those  '  invisible  flowers  of  sound' 
which  lie  pressed  between  his  pages." —  The  Bookman. 

Flute  and  Violin, 
and  other  Kentucky  Tales  and  Romances 

By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 
Cloth,  I2tno.     Illustrated.     $1.50 

"  He  takes  us  into  a  green  and  fragrant  world  in  that  Kentucky  home  of 
his  which  he  has  shared  with  us  so  genially  and  delightfully  before  now.  No 
one  has  made  more  of  a  native  region  than  he  —  more  beauty  and  more 
attractiveness.  He  has  done  for  the  tlue  grass  country  what  Miss  Wilkins 
has  done  for  New  England,  what  Hamlia  Garland  has  done  for  some  parts 
of  the  West."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

A  Kentucky  Cardinal 

By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 
Cloth,  I2mo.    Illustrated.    $1.00 

*  A  narrative,  told  with  naive  simplicity  in  the  first  person,  of  how  a  man 
who  was  devoted  to  his  fruits  and  flowers  and  birds  came  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  fair  neighbor  who  treated  him  at  first  with  whimsical  raillery  and  coquetry, 
and  who  finally  put  his  love  to  the  supreme  test."  —  N.  Y.  Tribune, 

Aftermath 

A  Sequel  to  "A  Kentucky  Cardinal" 

By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 
Cloth,  I2mo.     Illustrated.    £1.00 

•'  The  perfect  simplicity  of  all  the  episodes,  the  gentleness  of  spirit,  and 
the  old-time  courtesy,  the  poetry  of  it  all,  with  a  gleam  of  humor  on  almost 
•rery  page."  —  Life. 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY   OF  CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


JUL  28 


8  1918 


RECEIVED 


LOAN  DEFT 


UG  9   1326 


e  i  i 

AU6  23J96876 


DEC    1 

3CT  18   193(5 


